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~~..: -L-=r —-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-~~~-~~~- _~~~~-~~~-~~;-~~~~==~~~~  _c ~ ~ ~ ~ ~!if.s~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~Y-REsHuE




S H I R L E Y.
BY
CHARLOTTE BRONTE,
(CURRER BELL).
ILL US TRA TE D.
NUNNELY COAMMON AND WOOD.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.








ILLUSTRATIONS.
YORKE'S HOUSE.....Fr...................Eontis5iece.
NUNNELY COMMON AND WOOD............ignette title.
FIELDHEAD HALL....................o face page I69
HOLLOW'S MILL......    "    305
BRIARFIELD CHURCH..................    "    52I








SHI   LE -Y.
CHAPTER L
LEVITICAL.
OF late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen
upon the north of England: they lie very thick on the hills,
every parish has one or more of them; they are young enough
to be very active, and ought to be doing a great deal of good.
But not of late years are we about to speak; we are going
back to the beginning of this century; late years-present
years are dusty, sun-burned, hot, arid; we will evade the
noon, forget it in siesta, pass the mid-day in slumber, and
dream of dawn.
If you think, from this prelude, thiaI any thing like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mlis
taken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie?.Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm
your expectations; reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you; something unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake
with the consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto  It is not positively affirmed that you shall not
have a taste of the exciting, perhaps toward the middle and
close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first dish set
upon the table shall be one that a Catholic-ay. even an An.
glo-Catholic-might eat on Good-Friday in Passion Week: it
shall be cold lentiles and Vinegar witlout oil; it shall be un
tlavened bread with bitter herbs and no roast lamb.




6                     SHIRLEY.
Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of culatacs has
fallen upon the north of England; but in eighteen-hundredeleven-twelve that affluent rain had not descended: curates
were scarce then: there was no Pastoral aid-no Additional
Curates' Society to stretch a helping hand to worn-out old rectors and incumbents, and give them the wherewithal to pay a
vigorous young colleague from Oxford or Cambridge. The
present successors of the apostles, disciples of Dr. Pusey and
tools of the Propaganda, were at that time being hatched under cradle-blankets, or undergoing regeneration by nurserybaptism in wash-hand-basins. You could not have guessed
by looking at any one of them that the Italian-ironed double
frills of its net cap surrounded the brows of a pre-ordained,
specially-sanctified successor of St. Paul, St. Peter, or St. John;
nor could you have foreseen in the folds of its long night-gown
the white surplice in which it was hereafter cruelly to exer.
cise the souls of its parishioners, and strangely to nonplus its
old-fashioned vicar by flourishing aloft in a pulpit the shirtlike raiment which had never before waved higher than the
reading-desk.
Yet even in those days of scarcity there were curates: the
precious plant was rare, but it might be found.  A certain
favored district in the'West Riding of Yorkshire could boast
three rods of Aaron blossoming within a circuit of twenty
miles. You shall see them, reader. Step into this neat garden-house on the skirts of Whinbury, walk forward into the
little parlor-there they are at dinner.  Allow me to introduce them to you: Mr. Donne, curate of Whinbury; Mr. Malone, curate of Briarfield; Mr. Sweeting, curate of Nunnely.
These are Mr. Donne's lodgings, being the habitation of one
John Gale, a small clothier.  Mr. Donne has kindly invited
his brethren to regale with him. You and I will join the
party, see what is to be seen, and hear what is to be heard.
At present, however, they are only eating; and while they
eat we will talk aside.
These gentlemen are in the bloom of youth; they possess
all the activity of that interesting age-an activity which their
moping old vicars would fain turn into the channel of their
pastoral duties, often expressing a wish to see it expended in a
diligent superintendence of the schools, and in frequent visits
to the sick of their respective parishes.  But the youthful Loe




LEVITICAL.                        7
vites feel this to be dull work; they prefer lavishing their energies on a course of proceeding which —though to other eyes
it appear more heavy with ennui, more cursed with monotony
than the toil of the weaver at his loom-seems to yield them
an unfailing supply of enjoyment and occupation.
I allude to a rushing backward and forward among themselves to and from their respective lodcgings: not a rcund, but
a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the year through,
ill winter, spring, summer, and autumn.  Season ar. d weather
make no difference; with unintelligible zeal they dare snow
and hail, wind and rain, mire anrd dust to go and dine, or drink
tea, or sup with each other. What attracts them, it would be
difficult to say. It is not friendship; for whenever they meet
they quarrel.  It is not religion; the thing is never named
among them: theology they may discuss occasionally, but
piety-never. It is not the love of eating and drinking,; each
might have as good a joint and pudding, tea as potent, and
toast as succulent at his own lodgings as is served to him at
his brother's.  Mrs. Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and M~[rs. WVhipp-their
respective landladies-affirm  that "it is just for naught else
but to give folk trouble."  By " folk," the good ladies of course
mean themselves; for, indeed, they are kept in a continual
"fry" by this system of mutual invasion.
Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner,
Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire
is in her eye.  She considers that the privilege of inviting a
friend to a meal occasionally, without additional charge (a
privilege included in the terms on which she lets her lodgi ngs),
has been quite sufficiently exercised of late. The present week
is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday ]Mr. Malone, the curate
of Briarfield, came to breakfast and staid dinner; on Tues
day BMr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting, of Nunnely, came to tea,
remained to supper, occupied the spare bed, arid favored her
with their company to breakfast on Wednesdaymnorning; now,
on Thursday, they are both here at dinner; and she is almost
certain they will stay all night.  " C'en est trop," she would
say, if she could speak French.
SMr. Sweeting is mincing the slice of roast beef on his plate,
and complaining that it is very tough; Mr. Donne says the
beer is flat. Ay! that is the worst of it. If they would only
te civil. Mrs. Gale wouldn't mind it so much; if' they would
At*




8                    SI IRLEY.
only seem satisfied with what they get, she wouldn't care, but
"these young parsons is so high and so scornful, they set every
body beneath their fit; they treat her with less than civility,
just because she doesn't keep a servant, but does the work of
the house herself, as her mother did afore her; then they are
always speaking against Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire foblk,"
and by that very token Mrs. Gale does not believe one of them
to be a real gentleman, or come of gentle kin. " The old parsons is worth the whole lump of college lads; they know what
belangs good manners, and is kind to high and low."
"More bread!" cries Mr. Malone, in a tone which, though
prolonged but to utter two syllables, proclaims him at once a
native of the land of shamrocks and potatoes. Mrs. Gale hates
Mr. Malone more than either of the other two, but she fears
him also; for he is a tall, strongly-built personage, with real
Irish legs and arms, and a face as genuinely national; not the
Milesian face-not Daniel O'Connel's style, but the highIeatured, North-American-Indian sort of visage, which belongs
to a certain class of the Irish gentry, and has a petrified and
proud look, better suited to the owner of an estate of slaves
than to the landlord of a free peasantry. Ilr. Malone's fathet
termed himself a gentleman: he was poor and in debt, and
besottedly arrogant; and his son was like him.
Mrs. Gale offered the loaf.
"Cut it, woman!" said her guest; and the "woman" cut
it accordingly. HIad she followed her inclinations, she would
have cut the parson also; her Yorkshire soul revolted absolutely from his manner of command.
The curates had good appetites, and though the beef was
"tough," they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed, too, a
tolerable allowance of the " flat beer," while a dish of' Yorkshire pudding, and two tureens of vegetables, disappeared like
leaves before locusts.  The cheese, too, received distinguished
marks of their attention; and a " spice-cake," which followed
by way of dessert, vanished like a vision, and was no more
found. Its elegy was chanted ill the kitchen by Abraham,
Mrs. Gale's son and heir, a youth of six surlmers; he had
reckoned upon the reversion thereof, and when his mother
brought down the empty platter, he lifted up his voice and
wept sore.
The curates, meantime, sat and sipped their wine, a liquoi




LE VITICAL.                      9
of unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed.  Mr: Malone
indeed, would much rather have had whisky; but Mr. Donne,
being an Englishman, did not keep the beverage.  While
they sipped, they arguaed, not on politics, nor on philosophy,
nor on literature; these topics were now as ever totally with.
out interest for them; not even on theology, practical or doctrinal; but on minute points of ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which seemed empty as bubbles to all save themselves.
Mr. Malone, who contrived to secure two glasses of wine,
when his brethren contented themselves with one, waxed by
degrees hilarious after his fashion; that is, he grew a little
insolent, said rude things in a hectoring tone, and laughed
clamorously at his own brilliancy.
Each of his companions became in turn his butt.  Malone
had a stock of jokes at their service, which he was accustomen
to serve out regularly on convivial occasions like the present,
scldom varying his wit; for which, indeed, there was no necessity, as he never appeared to consider himself' monotonous,
and did not at all care what others thought.  Mr. Donne he
flvored with hints about his extreme meagerness, allusions to
his turned-up nose, cutting sarcasms on a certain threadbare
chocolate surtout, which that gentleman was accustomed to
sport whenever it rained, or seemed likely to rain, and criticisms on a choice set of cockney phrases, and modes of pronunciation, Mr. Donne's own property, and certainly deserving
of remark for the elegance and finish they communicated tc
his style.
Mr. Sweeting was bantered about his stature; he was a
little main, a mere boy in height and breadth compared with
the athletic Malone; rallied on his musical accomplishments,
he played the flute and sang hymns like a seraph (some young
ladies of his parish thought), sneered at as " the lady's pet."
teased about his mamma and sisters, for whom poor Mr. Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of whom he was foolish
enougfh now and then to speak in the presence of the priestly
Paddy, from whose anatomy the bowels of natural affection
had somehow been omitted.
The victims met these attacks each in his own wav
Mr. Donne with a stilted self complacency and half-sullen
phlegm, the sole props of his otherwise somewhat rickety
JLiznity; Mr Sweeting, with the indifilrence of a light,




10                    SIIiRLEY.
easy disposition, which never professed to have any dignity
to maintain.
When Malone's raillery became rather too offensive, which
it soon did, they joined in an attempt to turn the tables on
him, by asking him how many boys had shouted " Irish Peter!"
after him, as he came along the road that day (Malone's nanme
was Peter-the Rev. Peter Augustus Malone), requesting to
be infbrmed whether it was the mode in Ireland for clergymen to carry loaded pistols in their pockets, and a shillelagh
in their hands, when they made pastoral visits; inquiring the
signification of such words as vele, firrum, hellum, storrum
(so Mr. Malone invariably pronounced vail, firm, helm, storm),
m:nd employing such other methods of retaliation as the innate
refinement of their minds suggested.
This, of course, would not do. Malone, being neither good
natured nor phlegmatic, was presently in a towering passion.
He vociferated, gesticulated; Donne and Sweeting laughed.
He reviled them as Saxons and snobs, at the very top pitch
of his high Celtic voice; they taunted him with being the
native of a conquered land. I-e menaced rebellion in the
name of his " counthry," vented bitter hatred against English
rule; they spoke of rags, beggary; and pestilence. The little
parlor was in an uproar; you would have thought a duel must
follow such virulent abuse; it seemed a wonder that Mr. and
Mrs. Gale did not take alarm  at the noise, and send for a
constable to keep the peace. But they were accustomed to
such demonstrations; they well knew that the curates never
dined or took tea together without a little exercise of the sort,
and were quite easy as to consequences; knowing that these
clerical quarrels were as harmless as they were noisy; that
they resulted in nothing; and that, on whatever terms the
curates might part to-night, they would be sure to meet the
best friends in the world to-morrow morning.
As the worthy 2pair were sitting by their kitchen fire, listening to the repeated and sonorous contact of Malone's fist
with the mahogany plane of the parlor table, and to the con
sequent start and jingle of decanters and glasses following each
ussault, to the mocking laughter of the allied English disputants, and the stuttering declamation of the isolated Hibernian
-as they thus sat, a fbot was heard on the outer door-step
and the knocker quivered to a sharp appea.l.




LEVITICAL                       11
Mr. Gale went and opened.
" Whom have you up-stairs in the parlor?"' asked a voice,
a rather remarkable voice, nasal in tone, abrupt in utterance..' Oh! Mr. Helstone, is it you, sir?  I could hardly see
you for the'-darikness; it is so soon dark now. Will you walk
in, sir?"
"I want to know first whether it is worth my while walking in. Whom have you up-stairs?"
"The curates, sir."
" MThat! all of them?"
"Yes, sir."
" Been dining here?"
"Yes, sir."
"' That will do."
With these words a person entered-a middle-aged man,
in black. He walked straight across the kitchen to an inner
door, opened it, inclined his head forward, and stood listening
There was something to listen to, for the noise above was just
then louder than ever.'Hey!" he ejaculated to himself; then, turning to Mr.
Gale —" Have you often this sort of work?"
Mr. Gale had been a churchwarden, and was indulgent to
ilhe clergy.
"They're young, you know, sir-they're young," said he,
deprecatingly.
"Young! They want caning.  Bad boys!-bad boys!
and if you were a Dissenter, John Gale, instead of being a
good Churchman, they'd do the like-they'd expose themselves; but I'll-"
By way of finish to this sentence, he passed through the
inner door, drew it after him, and mounted the stair. Again
he listened a few minutes when he arrived at the upper room.
Making entrance without warning, he stood before the curates.
And they were silent; they were transfixed; and so was
the invader..  He-.a personaflge short of stature, but straight
of port, and bearing on broad shoulders a hawk's head, beak,
and eye, the whole surmounted by a Rehoboam, or shovel-hat,
which he did not seem to think it necessary to lift or remove
before the presence. iin which he then stood-he folded his
arms on his chest and surveyed his young friends-if frier. ds
they were-much at his leisure.




12         SlIIRLEY.
"What!' he began, delivering hI:s words in a xcoicc no
longer nasal, but deep-more than deep-a voice made purposely hollow and cavernous: " What! has the miracle of
Pentecost been renewed?  Have the cloven tongues come
down again?  Where are they?  The sound filled the whole
house just now. I heard the seventeen languages in full
action: Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in
Mesopotamia, and in Juanea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus and
Asia, Phrygia' and Pamphylia, in Egypt and in the parts of
Libya about Cyrene, strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes,'Cretes and Arabians-every one of them must have had its
representative in this room two minutes since."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone," began Mr. Donne;
"take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of wine?"
-His civilities received no answer; the falcon in the black
coat proceeded" What do I talk about the gift of tongues?  Gift, indeed!
I mistook the chapter, and book, and Testament-Gospel for
law, Acts for Genesis, the city of Jerusalem for the plain of
Shinar.  It was no gift, but the confusion of tongues which
has gabbled me deaf as a post.  You, apostles?  What!
you three?  Certainly not-three presumptuous Babylonish
masons-neither more nor less "'
"I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat together over a glass of wine, after a friendly dinner-settling
the Dissenters."
"Oh! settling the Dissenters —were you?  Was Malono
settling the Dissenters? It sounded to me much more like
settling his co-apostles.  You were quarreling together;
making almost as much noise-you three alone-as Moses
Barraclough, the preaching tailor, and all his hearers, are
making in the Methodist chapel down yonder, where they are
in the thick of a revival.  I know whose fault it is —it is
yours, Malone."
"Mine! sir?"
"Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting were quiet before you
came, and would be quiet if you were gone. I wish when
you crossed the Channel, you had left your Irish habits behind
you. Dublin student ways won't do here: the proceedings
which might pass unnoticed in a wild bog and mountain dits
triet in Connaught will, in a decent English parish, l,rit!n




LEVITICAL.                      13
disgrace on those who indulge in them, and, what is far -worse,
or the sacred institution of which they are merely the humble
appendages."
There was a certain dignity in the little elderly gentlernan's
manner of rebuking these youths; though it was not, perhaps,
quite the dignity most appropriate to the occasion.  Mr,
Helstone-standing straight as a ramrod-looking keen as a
kite, presented, despite his clerical hat, black coat, and gaiters,
more the air of a veteran officer chiding his subalterns, than
of a venerable priest exhorting his sons in the faith. Gospel
mildness —apostolic benignity, never seemed to have breathed
their influence over that keen, brown visage; but firmness
had fixed the features, and sagacity had carved her own lines
about them.
" I met Supplehough," he continued, "plodding through
the mud this wet night, going to preach at Milldean opposition
shop. As I told you, I heard Barraclough bellowing in the
midst of a conventicle like a possessed bull; and I find you,
gentlernen, tarrying over your half pint of muddy port wine,
and scolding like angry old women. No wonder Supplehough
should have dipped sixteen adult converts in a day-which
he did a fortnight since; no wonder Barraclough, scamp and
hypocrite as he is, should attract all the weaver-girls, in their
flowers and ribbons, to witness how much harder are his
knuckles than the wooden brim of his tub; as little wonder
that you, when you are left to yourselves, without your rectors-myself, and Hall, and Boultby-to back you, should too
often perform the holy service of' our church to bare walls,
and read your bit of' a dry discourse to the clerk, and the
organist. and the beadle.  But enough of the subject: I came
to see Malone-I have an errand unto thee, O captain!"
""What is it?" inquired Malone, discontentedly; "there
can be no funeral to take at this time of day."
" Have you any arms about you?"
"Arms, sir? yes, and legs:" and he advanced the mighty
members.
"Bah! weapons, I mean."
"I have the pistols you gave me yourself; I never part
with them: I lay them ready cocked on a chair by my bed
side at night. I have my blackthorn."
"Very good. Will you go to Hollow's-mill?"




:14                  SHIRLEY'What is stirring at Hollow's-mill?"
"Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will be: but Moore is alone
there.  He has sent all the workmen he can trust to Stilbro';
there are only two women left about the place: it would
be a nice opportunity for any of his well-wishers to pay him
a visit, if they knew how straight the path was made before
them."
" I am none of his well-wishers, sir: I don't care for him."
" Soh! Malone, you are afraid?"
" You know me better than that. If I really thought there
was a chance of a row, I would go: but Moore is a strange,
shy man, whom I never pretend to understand; and, for the
sake of his sweet company only, I would not stir a step."
"But there is a chance of a row, if a positive riot does not
take place-of which, indeed, I see no signs; yet it is unlikely
this night will pass quite tranquilly.  You know Aloore has
resolved to have the new machinery, and he expects two
wagon loads of frames and shears from Stilbro' this evening
Scott, the overlooker, and a few picked men, are gone to fitch
them."
" They will bring them in safely and quietly enough, sir."
" Moore says so, and affirms he wants nobody: some one,
however, he must have, if it were only to bear evidence in
case any thing should happen.  I call him very careless.  He
sits in the counting-house with the shutters unclosed; he goes
out here and there after dark, wanders right up the hollow,
down Fieldheadl Lane, among the plantations, just as if he
were the darling of the neighborhood, or-being, as he is, its
detestation-bore a'charmed life,' as they say in tale books.
IHe takes no warning fiom the fate of Pearson, nor from that
of Armitae —shot one in his own house and the other on the
moor."
"But he should take warning, sir, and use precautions too,"
interposed Mr. Sweeting; "a nd I think he vould, if he heard
what I heard the other day."
"What did you hear, Davy?"
"You know NMike.Haartley, sir?"
"The Antinomian weaver?  Yes.;'
" When Mike has been drinking for a few weeks together,
ble generally winds up by a visit to Nunnely vicarage, to tel
Mlr Hail a piece of his mind about his sermons,. to lenounce




LEVITICAL.                      15
the horrible tendency of his doctrine of works, and varn. him
that he and all his 1. earers are sitting in outer darkness."
"Well-that has nothing to do with Moore."
"Besides being an Antinomn:an, he is a violent Jacobin and
leveler, sir.", "I know.  When he is very drunk, his mind is always
running on regicide. Mike is not unacquainted with history,
and it is rich to hear him going over the list of tyrants of
whom, as he says,' the revenger of blood has obtained satisfaction.' The fellow exults strangely in murder done on
crowned heads, or on any head for political reasons. I have
already heard it hinted that he seems to have a queer hanker.
ing after Moore: is that what you allude to, Sweeting."
"You use the proper term, sir. Mr. Hall thinks he haE
no personal hatred of Moore; he says he even likes to talk
to him, and run after him, but he has a hankering that he
should be made an example of. He was extolling him to
Mr. Hall the other day as the mill-owner with the most
brains in Yorkshire, and for that reason he affirms he should
be chosen as a sacrifice, an oblation of a sweet savor. Is
Mike Iartley in his right mind, do you think, sir?" inquired
Sweeting, simply.
"Can't tell, Davy; he may be crazed or he may be only
crafty-or, perhaps, a little of both."
"He talks of seeing visions, sir."
"Ay! He is a very Ezekiel or Daniel for visions. tie
came just when I was going to bed, last Friday night, to.describe one that had been revealed to him in Nunnely Park
that very afternoon."
"Tell it, sir-what was it?" urged Sweeting.
"Davy, thou hast an enormous organ of Wonder in thy
cranium; Malone, you see, has none; neither murders nor
visions interest him: see what a bVg, vacant Saph, he looks
at this moment."
"Saph! Who was Saph, sir?"
"I thought you would not know: you may find it out: it
is biblical. I know nothing more of him than his name and
race; but from a boy upward, I have always attached a per
sonality to Saph. Depend on it he was honest, heavy, and
luckless; he met his end at Gcb, by the hand of Sibbechai.'
" But the vision, sir?:'




16G             -    Sf IIt LEY 
"Davy, thou shalt hear.  Donne is biting his nails, and
Malone yawning; so I will tell it but to thee. Mike is out
of work, like many others, unfbrtunately; Mr. Grame, Six
Philip Nunnely's steward, gave him a job about the priory:
according to his account, he was busy hedging rather late in
the afternoon, but before dark, when he heard what he thought
was a band at a distance, bugles, fifes, and the sound of a
trumpet; it came from the forest, and he wondered that there
should be music there. He looked up: all among the trees
he saw moving objects, red, like poppies, or white, like Mayblossom; the wood was full of themI they. poured out and
filled the park. He then perceived they were soldiers-thousands and tens of thousands, but they made no more noise than
a swarm of midges on a summer evening.  They formed in
order, he affirmed, and marched, regiment after regiment,
across the park; he followed them to Nunnely Common; the
music still played soft and distant. On the common he
watched them go through a number of evolutions, a man
clothed in scarlet stood in the center and directed them; they
extended,. he declared, over fifty acres; they were in sight
half' an hour; then they marched away quite silently-the
whole time he heard neither voice nor tread-nothing but the
faint _music playing a solemn march."
" Where did they go, sir?"
"Toward Briarfield; Mike followed them; they seemed
passing Fieldliad, when a column of smoke, such as might be'vomited by a park of artillery, spread noiseless over the fields,
the road, the common, and rolled, he said, blue and dim to his
very'feet. As it cleared away he looked again for the soldiers,
but they were vanished; he saw them no more. Mlike, like
a wise Daniel as he is, not only rehearsed the vision, but gave
the interpretation thereof: it signifies, he intimated, bloodshed
and civil conflict."
" Do you credit it, sir?" asked Sweeting.
" Do you, Davy? But come, Malone, why are you not off"'
" I am rather surprised, sir, you did not stay with Moore
yourself; you like this kind of thing."
" So I shoald have done, had I not unfortunately happened
to engage Boultby to sup with me on his way home from the
Bible Society meeting at Nunnely.  I promised to send you as
my substitute, fobr which, by-the-by, he did not thank me; he




LEVIT1CA L                       17
would much rather have had me than you, Peter.  Should
there be any real need of help, I shall join you; the mill-bell
will give warning.  Meantime go, unless (turning suddenly to
Messrs. Sweeting and Donne), unless Davy Sweeting or Joseph
Donne prefers going.  What do you say, gentlemen?  The
commission is an honorable one,~ not without the seasoning of
a little real peril, for the country is in a queer state, as you all
know, and Moore, and his mill, and his machinery are held in
sufficient odiiu;..i.  Theire are -chivalric sentiments, there is
hlglh-beating courage under those waistcoats of yours, I doubt
not. Perhaps I am too partial to my favorite, Peter; little
David shall be the champion or spotless Joseph. Malone, you
are but a great floundering Saul after all, good only to lend
your armor: out with your fire-arms, fetch your shillelagh; it,s there-in the corner."
With a significant grin, Malone produced his pistols, offerinmg one to each of his brethren: they were not readily seized
on.  With graceful modesty, each gentleman retired a steF
from the presented weapon.
" I never touch them: I never did touch any of the kind,'
said Mr. Donne.
" I am almost a stranger to Mr. Moore," murmured Sweeting..
"If you never touched a pistol, try the feel of it now, great
satrap of Egypt.  As to the little minstrel, he probably prefers encountering the Philistines with no other weapon than
his flute. Get their hats, Peter; they'll both of'em go."
" No, sir; no, Mr. Helstone; my mother wouldn't like it,"
pleaded Sweeting.
"And I make it a rule never to gtA mixed lp in affairs of
the kind," observed Donne.
Helstone smiled sardonically; Malone laughed a horselaugh.  He then replaced his aims, took his hat and cudgel,
and, saying that " he never felt more in tune for a shindy in
his lifi, and that he wished a score of greasy cloth-dressers
might beat up Moore's quarters that night," he maede his exit,
clearing the stairs at a stride or two, and making tfne house
shake with the bang of the front-door behind him.




18                    SHIRLEY.
CHAPTER TI.
TIIE WAGONS.
TImE evening was pitch-dark: star and moon were. quench
ed in gray rain-clouds-gray they would have been by day;
by night they looked sable. Malone was not a man given to
close observation of Nature; her changes passed, for the most
part, unnoticed by him; he could walk miles on the most varying April dday,-'and never see the beautiful dallying of earth
and heaven, never mark when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops,
malting there smile clear in green light, or when a shower
wept over them, hiding their crests with the low-hanging,
disheveled tresses of a cloud. I-He did not, therefore, care to
contrast the sky as it now appeared-a muffled, streaminag
vault, all black, save where, toward the east, the furnaces of
Stilbro' iron-works threw a tremulous lurid shimmer on the
horizon-with the same sky on an unclouded frosty night.
He did not trouble himself to ask where the constellations and
the planets were gone, or to regret the "black-blue" serenity
of the air-ocean which those white islets stud, and which another ocean, of heavier and denser element, now rolled below
and concealed.  He just doggedly pursued his way, leaning a
little forward as he walked, and wearing his hat on the back
of his head, as his Irish manner was.  "Tramp, tramp," he
went along the causeway, where the road boasted the privilege of such an accommodation; " splash, splash," through the
mire-filled cart-ruts, where the flags were exchanged for soft
mud.  He looked but for certain landmarks, the spire of Briarfield church; further on, the lights of.Re.dJouse.  This
was an inn; and when he reached it, the glow of a fire through
a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table.
and of revelers on an oaken settle, had nearly drawn aside the
curate from his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler
of whisky-and-water: in a strange place, he would instantly
have realized the dream; but the company assembled in that
kitchen were _Mr. Helstone's own parishioners; they all knew
him. He sighed, and passed on.




THE WAGONS.                      19
The high road was now to De quitted, as the remaining distance to Hollow's-mill might be considerably reduced by a
short cut'across fields.  These fields were level and monotonous: Malone took a direct course through them, jumping
hedge and wall.  He passed but one building here, and that
seemed large and hall-like, though irregular: you could see a
high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick,
lofty stack of chimneys: there were some trees behind it. It
was dark; not a candle shone from any window; it was absolutely still: the rain running from the eaves, and the rather
wild, but very low whistle of the wind round the chimneys
and through the boughs, were the sole sounds in its neighborhood.
This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, declined in a
rapid descent: evidently a vale lay below, through which you
could hear the water run. One light glimmered in the depth:
for that beacon Malone steered.
He came to a little white house-you could see it was white
even through this dense darkness —and knocked at the door.
A fresh-faced servant opened it; by the candle she held was
revealed a narrow passage, terminating in a narrow stair.
Two doors covered with crimson baize, a strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-colored walls and
white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.
"Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose?"
" Yes, sir; but he is not in."
"Not in! Where is he, then?"
"At the mill-in the counting-house."
Here one of the crimson doors opened.
"Are the wagons come, Sarah?" asked a female voice, and
a female head at the same tinme was apparent. It might not
be the head of a goddess-indeed, a screw of curl-paper on
each side the temples quite forbade that supposition-but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; yet Malone seemed to take
it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully back
into the rain at the view thereof; and saying, "I'll go to
him," hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across
an obscure yard, toward a huge black mill.
The work-hours were over; the "hands" were gone; the
machinery was at rest; the mill shut up. Malone walked
round. it; somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another




20                  9StHI RLEY.
chink of light; he knocked at another door, usingr for the pmol
pose the thick end of his shillelagh, with which he beat [a
rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.
" Is it Joe Scott?  WVhat news of the wagons, Joe?"
N' o-it's myself.  Mr. Helstone would send me."
"Oh! Mr. Malone."  The voice in uttering this name
had the slightest possible cadence of' disappointment. After a
moment's pause, it continued, politely, but a little formally"I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone.  I regret extremely
Mr. Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble you
so far; there was no necessity-I told him so-and on such
a night-but walk fbrward."
Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable,
Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room
within; very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which
for the last hour had been striving to penetrate the double
darkness of night and fog; but except for its excellent fire,
and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid luster burning on
a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was
carpetless; the three or four stiff-backed, green-painted chairs
seemed once to have furnished the kitchen of some farm-house;
a desk of strong, solid formation, the table aforesaid, and some
fiamed sheets on the stone-colored walls, bearing plans for
building, for gardening, designs of machinery, &c., completed
the furniture of the place.
Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone, who, when he
hlad removed and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew one
of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set his
knees almost within the bars of the red grate.
"Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore, and all
snug to yourself."
"Yes; but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would
prefer stepping into the house."
"Oh, no i! the ladies are best alone. I never was a lady's
man. You don't mistake me for my fiiend Sweeting, do you,
Mr. Moore?"
"Sweeting!-which of them is that?  The gentlerman in
the chocolate over-coat, or the little gentleman?"
"; The little one;-he of Nunnely;-the cavalier of' the
Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love.
ha! ha?"




THE W&GONS.                      21
"Better be generally in love with all than specially with
np. I should think, in that quarter."
"But he is specially in love with one besides, for when I
and Donne urged him to make a choice among the fair bevy
he named-which do you think?"
With a queer, quiet smile, Mr. Moore replied, " Dora, ol
course, or Harriet."
"  a! ha! you've an excellent guess; but what made you
hit on those two?"
"Because they are the tallest, the handsomest; and Dora,
at least, is the stoutest; and as your friend, Mr. Sweeting, is
but a little, slight figure, I concluded that, according to a fiequet rule in such cases, he preferred his contrast."
" You are right; Dora it is: but he has no chance, has he,
Moore?" 
"What has Mr. Sweeting, besides his curacy?"
This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly; he laughed
for full three minutes before he answered it.
"What has Sweeting?  Why David has his harp, or flute
which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck
watch; ditto, ring; ditto, eye-glass: that's what he has."
"' How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns only?'
" Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see
him. I'll roast him for his presumption; but no doubt he ex
pects old Christopher Sykes would do something handsome.
lie is rich, is he not?  They live in a large house."
"Sykes carries on an extensive concern."
"Therefore he must be wealthy, eh?"
" Therefore he must have plenty to do with his wealth:
and in these times would be about as likely to think of drawing money from the business to give dowries to his daughters
as I should be to dream of pulling down the cottage there,
and constructing on its ruins a house as large as Fieldhead."
"Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day?"
"No: perhaps that I was about to effect some such change
Your Briarfield gossips are capable of saying that or sillier
things."
"That you were going to take Fieldhead on a lease —1
thought it looked a dismal place, by-the-by, to-night, as I
passed it-and that it was your intention to settle a MisM
Sykes there as mistress; to be married, in short, ha' ha




22                     SHIRLEY.
TNow, which is it. Dora-I am sure; you said she was thz
handsomest."
" I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be
married since I came to Briarfield! They have assigned me
every marriageable single woman by turns in the district.
Now it was the two Misses WVynn-first the dark, then the
light one.  Now the red-haired Miss Armitage, then the mature Ann Pearson; at present you throw on my shoulders all
the tribe of the Misses Sykes.  On what grounds this gossip
rests, God knows.  I visit nowhere-I seek female society
about as assiduously as you do, Mr. Malone; if ever I go to
Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson a call in their
counting-house, where our discussions run on other topics than
matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other things
than courtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth we can't
sell, the hands we can't employ, the mills we can't run, the
perverse course of events generally, which we can not alter,
fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well at present, to the iolerably complete exclusioal of such figments as love-making, &c."
" I go along with you completely, Moore.  If there is one
notion I hate more than another, it is that of marliage; I
mean marriage in the vulgar, weak sense, as a mere matter
of sentiment; two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their indigence by some fantastic tie of feeling —humbug! B 3t an advantageous connection, such as can be formed in consonance
with dignity of views, and permanency of solid interests, is
not so bad-eh'."
" No," responded Moore, in an absent manner; tlle subject
seemed to have no interest for him: he did not pursue it
After sitting for some time gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.
" Hark!" said he: "did you hear wheels?"
Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened.
He soon closed it.  " It is only the sound of the wind risinlg,"
he remarked, " and the rivulet a little swollen, rushing down
the hollow.  I expected those wagons at six; it is near nine
now.'
"Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this new
machinery will bring you into danger?" inquired Malone,
Hehltone seems to think it will."
" I only wish the machines-the frames were safe here, and




THE  WAGONS.                      23
locged vithin the walls of tlis mill.  Once put up, I defy tohet
frafme-bieakers; let them  only pay me a visit, and take the
consequences: ~my milly is mycastle."
"One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone, in a
profound vein of reflection.  "I almost wish a party would
call upon you to-night; but the road seemed extremely quiet as
I came along: I saw nothing astir."
"You came by the Redhouse?"
" Yes."
"There would be nothing on that road: it is in the direction of Stilbro' the risk lies."
"And you think there is risk?"
"WVhat these fellows have done to others, they may do to
me. There is only this difference: most of the manufacturers
seem paralyzed when they are attacked.  Sykes, for instance,
when his dressing-shop was set on fire and burned to the
ground, when the cloth was torn from his tenters and left in
shreds in the field, took no steps to discover or punish the miscreants; he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under the jaws of a
ferret.  Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade,
my mill, and my machinery."
"Helstone says these three are your gods; that the' Or.
ders in Council' are with you another name for the seven
deadly sins; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and the warparty his lesions."
" Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me; they
stand in my way.  I can not get on-I can not execute my
plans because of themn; I see myself baffled at every turn by
their untoward effects."
"But you are rich and thriving, Moore?"
" I am very ri:ch in cl"di   I can not sell; you should step
into nay warehouse yonder, and observe how it is piled to the
roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition; Ameica used to be their market, but the Orders in
Council have cut that off." 
Malone did not seemn prepared to carry on briskly a converration of this sort; he began to knock the heels of his boots
together, and to yawn.
"And then to think," continued Mr. Moore, who seemed too
much taken up with the current of his own thoughts to note
the symptoms of his guest's ennui-" to thlink that theeo ri.
B




9Z~t  ~         SHIRLEY.
dioulous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield will keep pestep,
ing one about being married! As if there was nothing to be
done in life but to'pay attention,' as they say, to some young
lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to start on
a bridal tour, and then to run through a round of visits, and
then, I suppose, to be'having a family.' Oh, que le diable
emporte!" HIe broke off the aspiration into which he was
launching with a certain energy, and added, more calmly, " I
believe women talk and think only of these things, and they
naturally fancy men's min-ds similarly occupied."
" Of course-of course," assented Malone; " but never mind
them." And he whistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of something. This time Moore caught,
and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstrations.
" Mr. Malone," said he, "you must require refreshment after
your wet walk; I forget hospitality."
" Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right
nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless.  Moore rose and
opened a cupboard.
" It is my fancy," said he, "to have every convenience wi thin
myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage
yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often
spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott
in the mill. Sometimes I am mry own watchman; i require
little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an
hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone,
can you cook a mutton-chop?"
" Try me: I've done it hundreds of times at college."
"There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron.  Turn
them quickly; you know the secret of keeping the juices in?"
" Never fear me-you shall see. Hand a knife and fork,
please."
The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to
the cookery with vigor. The manufacturer placed on the table
plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. Ha
then lproduced a small copper kettle-still from the same wellstored recess, his cupboaid —filled its with water from a large
stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissiing grid,
iron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but
while he was brewi rg the punch, a tap at the door called hiim
away.




THE WAGONS.                        25
"Is it you, Sarah?"
"Yes, sir.  Will you come to supper, please, s;ir'
"No; I shall not be in to-night: I shall sleep in the mill.
So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."  Ho
returned.
"You have your household in proper order," observed MaElone, approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers
over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton-chops.
"You are not under petticoat-government, like poor Sweet.
ing; a man —whew!-how the fat spits!-it has burned my
haind-destined to be ruled by women.  Now you and 1
Moore-there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy —
you and I will have  no gray mares in our stables when we
marry?"
" I don't know —I never think about it; if the gray mrare
ie handsome and tractable, why not?"
"The chops are done: is the punch brewed?"
"There is a glassful: taste it.  When Joe Scott and his
minions return they shall have a share of this, provided they
bring home the frames intact."
Malone waxed very exultant over the supper: he lauglhed:aloud at trifles; made bad jokes and applauded them himself;
and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy.  His host, on the contrary, remainedt quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you
should have some idea of the appearance of this same host: I
must endeavor to sketch him as he sits at table..
He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather a
strange-loohling man; for he is thin, dark, sallow; very foreign
of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead:
it appears that he spends but little time at his toilet, or he
would arrange it with more taste. IHe seems unconscious that
his features are fine, that they have a southern symmetry
clearness, regularity in their chiseling; nor does a spectator
becomne aware of this advantage till he has examined him
well, for an anxious countenance, and a hollow, somewhat haggard outline of face, disturb the idea of beauty with one of
care.  His eyes are large, and grave, and gray; their expres.
lioan is intent and meditative, rather searching than soft, rather
thoughtful than genial.  When he parts his lips in a smile
his physionuCmy  is agrecable; not that it is frank or cheerful,ven then, but you fee) the influence of a certain sedate chatrms




26                    SHIRLEY.
suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of a considerate, pec
haps a kind nature; of feelings that may wear well at home;
patient, forbearing, possibly faithful feelings  IHe is still
young-not more than thirty'  his stature is tall, his figure slen.
der. His manner of speaking displeases; he has an outlandish
accent, which, notwithstanding a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction, grates on a British, and especially on
a Yorkshire ear.
Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely
that.  I-Ie came of a foreign ancestry by the mother's side.
and was himself born, and partly reared, on a foreign soil. A
hybrid in nature, it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling on
many points-patriotism for one; it is likely that he was unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes and
customs; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate
his individual person from any community amid which his lot
might temporarily happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to
be his best wisdom to push the interests of Robert Gerard
Moore, to the exclusion of philanthropic consideration for general interests, with which he regarded the said Gerard Moore
as in a great measure disconnected.  Trade was Mr. Moore'a
hereditary calling.  The Gerards of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back; once t they had been wealthy
merchants, but the uncertainties, the involvements of business
had come upon them; disastrous speculations had loosened by
degrees the foundations of their credit; the house had stood
on a tottering base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock
of the French Revolution, it had rushed down a total ruin.
In its fall was involved the English and Yorkshire firm of
Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp house, and of
which one of the partners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore,
had married Hortense Gerard, with the prospect of his bride
inheriting her father, Constantine Gerard's share in the busi.
ness.  She inherited, as we have seen, but his share in the
liabilities of the firm; and these liabilities, though duly set
aside by a composition with creditors, some said her son Robert accepted, in his turn, as a legacy; and that he aspired one
day to discharge them, and to rebuild the fallen house of Gdrard and Moore on a scale at least equal to its former greathess.  It was even supposed. that he took by-past circumstances much to heart, and if a childhood passed at the 4do




TH1E WAGONS.                      27
tf a saturnine molther, under foreboding of coming evil, and a
manhood drenched and blighted by the pitiless descent of the
storm, could painfully impress the mind, his probably was
impressed in no golden characters.
If, however, he had a great end of restoration in view, it
was not in his power to employ great means for its attainment:
he was obliged to be content with the day of simall things.
When he came to Yorkshire, he whose ancestors had owned
warehouses in this seaport, and factories in that inland town,
had possessed their town-house, and their country-seat, saw
no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill,- in an out-of-theway nook of an out-of-the-way district, to take a cottage adjoining it for his residence, and to add to his possessions, as
pasture for his horse, and space for his cloth-tenters, a few
acres of the steep, rugged land that lined the hollow through
which his mill-stream brawled.  All this he held at a somewhat high rent (for these war times were hard, and every
thing was dear), of the trustees of the Fieldhead estate, then
the property of a minor.
At the time this history commences, he had lived but two
years in the district, during which period he had at least
proved himself possessed of the quality of activity. The dingy'
cottage was converted into a neat, tasteful residence. Of part
of the rough land he had made garden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with Flemish exactness and care.
As to the mill, which was an old structure, and fitted up with
old machinery, now become inefficient and out of date, he had
fiom the first evinced the strongest contempt for all its arrangements and appointments; his aim had been to effect a radical
reform, which he had executed as fast as his very limited
capital would allow; and the narrowness of that capital, and
consequent check on his progress, was a restraint which galled
his spirit sorely. M oore ever wanted to push on. " Forward"
was the device stamped upon his soul; but poverty curbed
him; sometimes (figuratively) he foamed at the mouth when
the reins were drawn very tight.
In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected that he
would deliberate much as to whether his advance was or was
not prejudicial to others.  Not being a native, nor for any
length of time a resident of the neighborhood, he did not suffli
ciently~ care when the new inventions threw the old woIkl




HIifRfl.
people out of employ; he, never asked nimsellf %here those t6;hoh~- n ie i0o longer paid,Wrveekly wages found daily bread;
and in this negligence he only resembled thousands besides, on
whom the starving poor of Yorkshire seenled to hlave a closer,claim.
The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in
British history, and especially in the history of the northern
provinces.  W~ar was then at its height.  Europe was all
involved therein.  England, if not weary, was worn with long
resistance; yes, and half her people were weary, too, and cried
out fbr peace on any terms. tNational honor was become a
mere empty name of no value in the eyes of many, because
their sight was dim with famine, and ibr a morsel of meat
they would have sold their birthright.
The " Orders in Council," provoked by Napoleon's Milan
and Berlin decrees, and forbidding neutral powers to trade
with France, had, by of-ending America, cut off the principal
market f ile Yorkshire woolen trade, and brought it, consequently, IO the verge of ruin.  Mlinor foreignr  markets were
glutted, alnS would receive no more. The Brazils, Portugal,
Sicily, wetiu  1 overstocked by nearly two years' consumption
At this criis, certain inventions in machinery were introduced
into the staple manufactures of the north, which, greatly redtucing the number of hands necessary to be employed, threw
thousands out of work, and left them without legitimate
means of sustaining lite. A bad harvest supervened.  Distress reached its climax.  Endurance, over-goaded, stretched
the hand of fraternity tG sedition; the throes of a sort of moral
earthqualke were felt heav-ing under the hills of the northern
counties.  But, as is usual in such cases, nobody tooi much
InoticQ..  WVhen a food-riot broke out in a manufacturing town,
*hen a gig-mid was burned to the ground, or a manufacturer's house -was attacked, the furniture thrown into the
str.ets, and the amniiy forced to flee for their lives, some local
measures were or were not talken by the local magistracy; a
ringleader was detected, or more frequently suffered to elude
detection, newspaper paragraphs were written on the subject,
and there the thing stopped. As to the sufferers, whose sole
inheritance was labor, and who had lost that inheritance;
who could not get work, and consequently could not get wages,
and consequently could not get bread, they were leJft to s.ukf2




THE WAGONS.                       23
im, perhaps inevitably left; it would not do to stcp the prog
res4 of invention, to damage science by discouraging its improvements; the war could not be terminated, efficient relief
could not be raised; there was no help then, so the unemployed
underwent their destiny-ate the bread and drank the waters
of affliction.
Misery generates hate; these sufferers hated the machines
which they believed took their bread from'them; they hated
the buildings which contained those machines; they hated the
manufacturers who owned those buildings. In the parish of
Briarfield, with which we have at present to do, Hollow's.
mill was the place held most abominable; Gdrard Moore, in
his double character of semi-foreigner and thorough-going
progressist, the man most abominated. And it, perhaps,
rather agreed with Moore's temperament than otherwise to
be generally hated, especially when he believed the thing for
which he was hated a right and an expedient thing; and it
was With a sense of warlike excitement he, on this night, sat
in his counting-house waiting the arrival of his frame-laden
wagons. Malone's coming and company were, it may be,
most unwelcome to him; he would have preferred sitting
alone, for le liked ae silenrt, somber, unsafe solitude; his watchman's musket would have been company enough fobr him; theo
full-flowing beck in the den would have delivered continuously
the discourse most genial to his ear.
With the queerest look in the world, had the -manufacturer
for some ten minutes been watching the Irish curate, as the
latter made free with the punch, when suddenly that steady
gray eye changed, as if another vision came between it and
Mi/alone. He raised his hand.
"' Chut!" he said, in his French fashion, as Malone made
a noise with his glass. He listened a moment, then rose, put
his hat on, and went out at the counting-house door.
The night was still, dark, and stagnant, the water y'et
rushed on full and fast; its flow almost seemed a flood in the
utter silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another sound —
very distant, but yet dissimilar-broken, and rugged; in short,
a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road. HLe returned
to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with which he walked
down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. The big




8SHIRLEY.
wagons were coming on; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were
heard splashing in the mrud and water.  Moore hailed them.
H' ey, Joe Scott! Is all right?"
Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance. to hear
the inquiry; he did not answer it.
"Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore, when the elephant-like leader's nose almost touched his.
Some one jumped out from the foremost wagon into the
road; a voice cried aloud, "Ay, ay, divil, all's raight!, We'vee
smashed'em."
And there Was a run.  The wagons stood still; they were
now deserted.
"Joe Scott!"  No Joe Scott answered.  "Murgatroyd!
Pighills! Sykes!"  No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern,
and looked into the vehicles; there was neither man nor
machinery;. they:wx R empty and.abandoned.
-N6ow Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the
last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shears
which to-night had been expected; speculations most important to his interests depended on the results to be wrought by
them; where were they?
The words "' we've smashed'cen!" rungf in his ears. HI-ow
did the catastrophe affect him? By the light of the lantern
he held, were his features visible, relaxing to a singular smile;
the smile the man of determined spirit wears when he reaches
a juncture in his life where this determined spirit is to feel a
demand on its strength, when the strain is to- be made, and
the faculty must bear or break; yet he remained silent and
even motionless, for at the instant he neither knew what to
say nor what to do. IHe placed the lantern on the ground,
and stood with his arms folded, gazing down and reflecting.
An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him
presently look up; his eye, in the moment, caught the gleam
of something white attached to a part of the harness. Examined by the light of the lantern, this proved to be a folded
paper-a billet. It bore no address without; within was the
Buperscription:"To the Divil of Hollow's-miln."
We will not copy the rast of the orthography, which was
very peculiar, but translate it into legible English.'It ran
tLh u..




THE WAGONS.                      31
"Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro
Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch
by th3 road-side.  Take this as a warning from men that are
starving, and have starving wives and children to go home to
when they have done this deed. If you get new machines,
or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall heax
from us again.  Beware!"
" Hear from you again?  Yes; I'll hear from you again,
and you shall hear from me; I'll speak to you directly; on
3tilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment."
Having  led the wagons within the gates, he hastened toward the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few words
quickly but quietly to two females who ran to meet him in
the passage.  He calmed the seeming alarm of one by a brief
palliative account of what had taken place; to the other he
said, " Go into the mill, Sarah-there is the key-and ring
the mill-bell as loud as you can: afterward you will get another lantern and. help me to light up the front."
Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled
them with equal speed and care, pausing occasionally, while
so occupied, as if to listen for the mill-bell. It clanged out
presently with irregular but loud and alarming din; the hurried, agitated peal seemed more urgent than if the summons
had been steadily given by a practiced hand. On that still
night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round;
the guests in the kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by
the clangor; and declaring that "there must be summat mors
nor common to do at I[ollow's-miln," they called for lanterns,
and hurried to the spot in a body. And scarcely had they
thronged into the yard with their gleaming lights, when the
tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat,
sitting erect on the back of a shaggy pony, " rode lightly in,"
followed by an aid-de-camp mounted on a larger steed.
Mr. Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray-horses, had
Sadfdled his hackney, and with the aid of Sarah, the servant,
lil up his mill, whose wide and long front now glared one
great illumination, throwing a sufficient light on the yard to
obviate all fear of confusion arising from obscurity. Already
a deep hum of voices became audible: Mr. Malone had at
length issued from the counting-house, previously taking the
precaution to dip his head and faco in the stone water-jam;
B, *




132                  1SHIIRLEY.
aikd this precaution, together with the sudden alarm, had
nearly restored to him the possession of those senses which
the punch had partially scattered.  He stood with his hat on
the back of his head, and his shillelagh grasped in his dexter
fist, answering much at random tile questions of the newlyarrived party from the Redhouse.'4Mr. Moore now appeared,
and was immediately confionted by the shovel hat and the
shaggy pony.
" Well, Moore, what is your business with us'  I thought
you would want us to-night, me and the hetman  here (patting his pony's neck), and Tom and his charger.  When I
heard your mill-bell, I could sit still no longer, so I left Boult
by to finish his supper alone: but where is the enemy? I
do not see a mask or a smuttel face present; and there is not
a pane of glass broken in your windows.  IHave you had an
attack or do you expect one?"
"Oh, not at all! I have neither had one nor expect one,"
Answered Mioore, coolly.  "I only ordered the bell to be rung
because I want two or three neighbors to stay here in the
Hollow, while I and a couple or so more go over to Stilbro'
Moor. " 
"To Stilbro' Tloor! What to do? To meet the wagons?'
" The wagons are come home an hour ago."
" Then all's right.  What more would you have?"'They came home empty, and Joe Scott and Company are
left on the moor, and so are the flames. RPlead that scrawl.'`
Mr. Helstone received and perused the document of which
the contents have before been given.
" Hum!. They've only served you as they serve others.
But, however, the poor fellows in the ditch will be expecting
help with some impatience: this is a wet night for such a
berth: I and Tom wrill go with you; Malone may stay behind and take care of the mill: ~what is the matter  with him?
His eyes seem starting out of his head."
"THe has been eating a mutton-chop."
"Indeed!  Peter Auustus, be on your guard. Eat no
more mutton-chops to-night.  You are left here in command
of these premises; an honorable post!"
I"s any body to stay with me?'
"As many of the present assemblage as choose.  My lads
how many of yeno will remain here, and how maany w ll go a




MD. YO KE.                     33
Little way with nme and Mr. Moore on the Stilbro' road, to
meet some mel who have been waylaid and assaulted by
frame-breakers. "
The small number of three volunteered to go; the rest prc.
ferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse, the
rector asked him, in a low voice, whether he had locked up the
mutton-chops, so that Peter Augustus could not get at them?
The manufacturer nodded anl affirmative, and the rescue-party
set out.
CHAPTER  III.
MR. YORKE.
Ci.EERFULNESS, it would appear, is a matter which depends
fully as much on the state of things within. as on the state of
things without and around us. I make this trite remark,
because I happen to know that Messrs. Helstone and Mooro
trotted forth from the mill-yard gates, at the head of their
very small company, in the best possible spirits. When a
ray from a lantern (the three pedestrians of the party carried
each one) fell on Mr. Moore's face, you could see an unusual,
because a lively spark, dancing in his eyes, and a new-found
vivacity mantling on his dark physiognomy; and when the
rector's visage was illuminated, his hard features were revealed
all agrin and ashine with glee. Yet a drizzling night, a somewhat perilous expedition, you would think, were not circumstances calculated to enliven those exposed to the wet, and.
engaged in the adventure. If any member or members of the
crew who had been at work on Stilbro' Moor had caught a
view of this party, they would have had great pleasure in
shooting either of the leaders from behind a wall: and the
leaders knew this, and, the fact is, being both men of' steely
nerves and steady-beating hearts, were elate with the knowledge.
I am aware, reader, and you need not remind me, that it;s a. dreadful thing for a parson to be warlike: I am aware




0t                    SH IRTLEY.
that he should be a man of peace: I have some faint outline
of all idea of what a clergymain's mission is among mankind,
and I remember distinctly whose servant he is, whose message
lie delivers, whose example he should follow; yet, with all
this, if you are a parson-hater, you need not expect me to go
along with you every step of your dismal, downward-tending,
unchristian road; you need not expect me to join in your deep
anathemas, at once so narrow and so sweeping-in your poisonous rancor, so intense and so absurd, against "the cloth;"
to lift up my eyes and hands with a Supplehough, or to inflate
my lungs with a Barraclough, in horror and denunciation of
the diabolical rector of Briarfield....-.ie was not diabolical at all.  The evil simply was-he
had missed his vocation: he should have been a soldier, and
circumstances had made him a priest.  For the rest, he was
a conscientious, hard-headed, hard-handed, brave, stern, implacable, faithful little man: a man almost without sympathy, ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid; but a man true to principle-honorable, sagacious, and sincere.  It seems to me,
reader, that you can not always cut out men to fit their profession, and that you ought not to curse them because that
profession sometimes hangs on them ungracefully-nor will
I curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was. Yet he was
cursed, andby many of his own parishioners, as by others he
was adored, which is the frequent fate of men who show
partiality in friendship, and bitterness in enmity; who are
equally attached to principles and adherent to prejudices.
Helstone and Moore, being both in excellent spirits, and
united for the present in one cause, you would expect that, as
they rode side by side, they would converse amicably. Oh,
no! These two men, of hard, bilious natures both, rarely
calme into contact but they chafed each other's moods: their
frequent bone of contention was the war.   elstone was a
high Tory (there were Tories in those days) and Moore was
a bitter Whig-a WThig, at least, as far as opposition to the
war-party was concerned, that being the question which aft1cted his own interest; and only on that question did he
profess any British politics at all. He liked to infuriate Hielstone by declaring his belief in the invincibility of Bonaparte;
by taunting England and Europe with the impotence of their
efforts to m'itlhtand him; and by coolly advancing the opinion




MR' YOR KE.                      35
th3 t it was as well to yield to him soon as late, sincs he  inust'n the end crush every antagonist, and reign supreme.
Hlelstone could not bear these sentiments: it was only on
the consideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and alien,
and having but half measure of British blood to temper the
foreign gall which corroded his veins, that he brought himself to listen to them without indulging the wish he felt to
cane the speaker.  Another thing, too, somewhat allayed his
disgust; namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone with
which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistency of Moore's crabbed contumacy.
As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, they rn.t what
little wind there was; the rain dashed in their faces.  Moore
had been fretting his companion previously, and now, braced
up by the raw breeze, and perhaps irritated by the sharp
drizzle, he began to goad him.
"Does your Peninsular news please you still?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" was the surly demand of the
rector.
" I mean have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord Wellington?"
"And what do you mean now?"
" Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebblehearted idol of England has power to send fire down fronm
heaven to consume the French holocaust you want to ofier
up?"
"I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into
the sea, the day it pleases him to lift his arm."    "
" But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what you say.
Bonaparte's marshals are great men, who act under the guid
ance of an omnipotent master-spirit: your Wellington is the
most humdrum of common-place martinets, whose slow xmechanical movements are further cramped by an Ignorant
home-government."' Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the
right champioi- of a good cause; the fit representative of a
powerful, a resolute, a sensible, and an honest nation."
" Your good cause, as far as I understand it, is simply the
restoration of that filthy, feeble Ferdinand, to a throne which
he disgraced: your fit representative of an honest people is a
dull-witted drover, acting for a duller-witted farmer; and




SHIRLEY.
against these are arrayed victorious Eupremacy arnJ invineible genius."
"Against iegitimacy is arrayed usurpation: against modest
single-minded, righteous, and brave resistance to encroach
ment, is arrayed boastful, double-tongued, selfish, and treacherous ambition to possess. God defend the right!"
"God often defends the powerful."
"W~hat! I suppose the handful of Israelites standing dryshod on the Asiatic side of the  ved Sea was more powerful
than the host of the Egyptians drawn up on the African side?
WVere they more numerous?  lWere they better appointed?
tWere they more mighty, in a word-eh?  Don't speak, or
you'll tell a lie, Moore; you know you will. They were a
poor, over-wrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants had oppressed
them through tbur hundred years; a feeble mixture of women
anti children diluted their thin ranks, their masters, who
roared to follow them through the divided flood, were a set
of pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as the lions
of Libya.  They were armed, horsed, and charioted; the poor
I-ebrew wanderers were a-foot; few of them, it is likely, hald
better weapons than their shepherds' crooks, or their masons'
building-tools  their meek and mighty leader himself had
only his rod.  But bethink you, hRobert Moore, right was
with them; the God of battles was on their side; crime and
the lost archangel generaled the ranks of Pharaoh, and which
triunmphed?  We know that well:' The Lord saved Israel
that day out of the hand of the Egyptians, and Israel saw
the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore;' yea,'the depths
covered them, they sank to the bottom as a stone.' The
right hand of the Lord became glorious in power; the right
hand of the Lord dashed ixn  pieces the enemy!"
"You are all right, only you forget the true parallel.
France is Israel, and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with hei
old over-gorged empires and rotten dynasties is corrupt Egypt;
gallant France is the Twelve Tribes, anld lher fresh and vigorous Usurper the Shepherd of IHoreb."
" I scorn to answer you."
Moore accordingly answered himself, at least he subjoined
to what he had just said an additional observation in a loweT
voice.
"Oh, in Italy he was as great as an) Moses  Ile was the




MR. YORKE.                      37
right thing there, fit to head and organize measures ftr tha
regeneration of nations. It puzzles me to this day how the
conqueror of Lodi should have condescended to become an
emperor, a vulgar, a stupid humbug; and still more, how a
people, who had once called themselves republicans, should
have sunk again to the grade of mere slaves. I despise
France! If England had gone as far on the march of civililization as France did, she would hardly have retreated so
sFhamelessly."
" You don't mean to say that besotted, imperial France is
any worse than bloody, republican France 2' demanded Helstone, fiercely.
"' I mean to say nothing, but I can think what I please,
you know, Myr. I{elstone, both about France and England,
and about revolutions, and regicides, and restorations in general; and about the divine right of kings, which you often
stickle for in your sermons, and the duty of non-resistance,
and the sanity of war, and-":Mr. M{oore's sentence was here cut short by the rapid rolling up of a gig, and its sudden stoppage in the middle of the
road; both he and the rector had been too much occupied
with their discourse to notice its approach till it was close
upon them.
"' Nah, maister, did th' wagons hit home?" demanded a
voice from the vehicle.
"Can that be Joe Scott?"
"Ay, ay!" returned another voice, for the gig contained
two persons, as was seen by the glimmer of its lamp-the
men with the lanterns had now fallen into the rear, or rathex
the equestrians of the rescue-party had outridden the pedestrians.  "Ay, Mr. MNoore, it's Joe Scott. I'm bringing him
back to you in a bonny pickle; I fand him on the top of the
moor yonder, him and three others.  What will you give man
for restoring him to you?"
"' Vhy, my thpmy hs, I believe; for I could better have affoided to lose k,:e~ man.  That is you, I suppose,,'Mr
Yorke, by your voice?"
"Ay, lad, it's me. I was coming home frorn Stilbro' market,
and just as I got to the middle of the moor, and was whip.
ping on as swift as the wind (for these, they say, are not safie
times, thanks to a bha;  government') I heard a groan.  I




SHIRLEY.
pulied up some would have whipt on faster; but I've naught
to fear, that I know of.  I don't believe there's a lad in these
parts would harm me; at least I'd give them as good as I got
if they offered to do it. I said,' Is there aught wrong anywhere?' —''Deed is there,' somebody says, speaking out of the
ground, like.' What's to do? be sharp, and tell me,' I ordered.-' Nobbut four on us ligging in a ditch,' says Joe, as
quiet as could be.  I tell'd'em, more shame to'em, and bid
them get up and move on, or I'd lend them a lickl of the gig
whip, fol r my notion was, they were all fresh.-' We'd ha'
done that an hour sin'; but we're teed wi' a bit o' band,'
says Joe.  So in a while I got down and loosed'em wi' my
penknife; and Scott would ride wi' me, to tell me all how it
happened; and t'others are coming on as fast as their feet
will bring them."
~" Vell, I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Yorke."
"Are you, my lad? you know you're not.  However, here
are the rest approaching. And here, by the Lord! is another
set with lights in their pitchers, like the army of Gideon; and
as we've th' parson wi' us-good evening, iMr. I-Ielstonewe'se do."
MiIr. lHestone returned the salutation of the individual in
the gig very stiffly indeed.  That individual proceeded"We're eleven strong men, and there's both horses and
chariots amang us.  If we could only fall in wi' some of these
starved ragamuffins of frame-breakers, we could win a grand
victory; we could iv'ry one be a Wellington-that would
please ye, Mr. JHelstone; and sich paragraphs as we could
contrive for t' papers! Briarfield suld be famous: but we'se
hey a column and a half i' th' Stilbro' Courier ower this job,
as it is, I dare say: I'se expect no less."
" And I'll promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for I'll write the
article myself," returned the rector.
"To be sure! sartainly! And mind ye recommend weel
that them'at brake t' bits o' frames, and teed Joe Scott's legs
xwi' band, suld be hung without benefit o' clergy.  It's a hang
ing matter, or suld be; no doubt o' that."
"If I judged them, I'd give them short shrift!" cried
Moore; " but I mean to let them quite alone this bout, to givo
them rope enoaglh, certain that in the entd they will hang
themselves."




MR. YOitK P39
"Let them alone, will ye, Moore?  Do you promise that?"
"Promise?  No.  All I mean to say is, I shall give my.
self no particular trouble to catch them; but if one falls in
my way-I"
"You'll snap him up, of course: only you would rather
they would do something worse than merely stop a wagon,
before you reckon with them.  Well, we'll say no more on
the subject at present.  Here we are at my door, gentlemen,
and I hope you and the men will step in: you will none of
you be the worse of a little refreshment."
Moore and Helstone opposed this proposition as unnecessary;
it was, however, pressed on them so courteously, and the night,
besides, was so inclement, and the gleam from the muslincurtained windows of the house before which they had halted,
looked so inviting, that at length they yielded. Mr. Yorke,
after having alighted fiom his gig, which he left in charge of
a man who issued from an outbuilding on his arrival, led the
way in.
It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a littti
in his phraseology; now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and anon
he expressed himself in very pure English;  His manner
seemed liable to equal alternations; he could be polite and
affable, and he could be blunt and rough. His station then
you could not easily determine by his speech or demeanor;
perhaps the appearance of his residence may decide it.
The men, he recommended to take the kitchen way, saying
that he would " see them served wi' surnmmat to taste presently."  The gentlemen were ushered in at the front entrance,
They found themselves in a matted hall, lined almost to the
ceiling with pictures; through this they were conducted to a
large -parlor, with a magnificent fire in the grate; the most
cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole, and when you came
to examine details, the enlivening effect was not diminished.
There was no splendor, but there was taste every whereunusual taste-the taste, you would have said, of a traveled
man, a scholar, and a gentleman.  A series of Italian views
decked the walls; each of these was a specimen of true art;
a connoisseur had selected. them: they were genuine and valuable.  Even by candle-light, tle bright, clears kies, the soft
distances, with blue air quivering between the eye and the
hills, the fresh tints and wcll massed lights and shadows




40                   nSHIRLEY
chaimed the view.  The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes
were all sunny.  There was a guitar and some music on a
sofa; there were cameos, beautiful miniatures, a set of
Grecian-looking vases nc the mantle-piece; there were booksl
well arranged in two elegant bookcases.
Mr. Yorke bade his guests be seated; he then rang for
wine; to the servant who brought it he gave hospitable orders
for the refreshment of the men in the kitchen.  The rector
remained standing; he seemed not to like his quarters; he
would not touch the wine his host ofkred hi-m.
"E'eI n as you will," remarked Mr. Yorke.  " I reckon
you're thinking of Eastern customs, lIAr. ielstone, and you'll
not eat nor drink under my roof, feared we suld bo forced to
be friends; but I'm not so particular or superstitious.  You
might sup the contents of that decanter, and you might give
nue a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I'd hold myself
lee to oppose you at every turn still-in every vestry meeting
auld justice meeting where we encountered one another."
" I is just what I should expect of you, Mr. Yorke."
" Does it agree wi' ye now, Mr. IHelstone, to be riding out
after rioters, of a wet night, at your age?"
" It always agrees withl me to be doing my duty, and in
this caso mny duty is a th6rough pleasure.  To hunt dovwn
vermin is a noble occupation —fit for an archbishop."
"Fit for ye, at ony rate: but where's t' curate?  He's
happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he's
happen hunting down vermin in another direction."
"i-Ie is doing garrison duty at Hiollow's-mill."
" You left him a sup o' wine, I hope, Bob (turning to Mr.
Moore), to keep his courage up?"
Ile did not pause fob  an answer, but continued, quickly,
still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an oldfashioned chair by the fireside —" Move it, Robert! Get up,
my lad! That place is mine.  Take the sofa, or three other
chairs, if you will, but not this; it belangs to me, and nob'dy
else."
"Why are you so particular to that chair, iMr. Yorke?"
asked eMoore, lazily vacating the place, m obedience to orders.
"'M;y father war afore me, ancd that's all t' answer I sall
gie thee; and it's as good a reason as Mrt, -elstone can give
for the main feck o' his notions"




lnR. YoR n.                       41
" Moore, are yout ready to go?" inquired the rector.
"C Nay; Robert's not ready; or, rather, I'm  not ready to
part wi' him: he's an ill lad, and wants correcting."'; Why, sir?  What have I done?"
" Made thyself enemies on every hand."
" WVho.t do I care for that?  What difference does it maks
to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"
"Ay, there it is.  The lad is a nak' of an alien amana us;
his father would never have talked i' that way.  Go back to
Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise tete!"
"Mifauvaise tdte vous memne; je ne fais quo men devoir:
quant   voyes lourdauds de paysans, je me'en nmoque!"
" E   revanche, mon garqou, nos lourdauds de paysans sE
moqueront do toi; sois en certain," replied Yorke, speaking
with nearly as pure a French accent as Gerard Moore.
C'est bon! c'est bon! Et puisque ceila mn'est'gal, quo
mnes amis ne s'en inlquidetelt pas."
" Tes amnis! OCi sont-ils, tes arnis?"
"Je fais eeho, oii sont-ils? et je suis iort aise quo l'echo seal
y repond.  Au diable les amis!  Je me souviens encore du:1moment oAf mon pdre et mnes oncles G6rard appellirent autour
d'ux le-urs amrris, et Dieu sait si les anis se sent empresses
d'accourir A leur secours! Tenez, M, Yorke, cc not, ami,
n'irrite trop  ne m'en parlez plus."
"Corarno tu voudras." 7.
And here Mr. Yorke hold his pecce; aud while lhe sits,
leaning backin- ils:tliiree-eornered, carved oak chair, I will
snatch my opportunity to sketch the portrait of this Fren1ch
speaking Yorkshire gentleo uan.




42                    SHIRLEY.
CHAPTER IV.
DIR. YORIKE (CONTINUED).
A YORKsHIRE gentleman he was, par e.cellence, in every
point. About fifty-five years old, but looking at first sight still
older, for his hair was silver-white. His forehead was broad,
not high; his face fresh and hale; the harshness of the north
was seen in his features, as it was heard in his voice; every
trait was thoroughly English, not a Norman line any where;
it was an inelegant, unclassic, unaristocratic mold of visage.
Fine people would, perhaps, have called it vulgar; sensible
people would have termed it characteristic; shrewd people
would have delighted in it for the pith, sagacity, intelligence
-the rude, yet real originality marked in every lineament,
latent in every furrow. But it was an indocile, a scornful,
and a sarcastic face; the face of a man difficult to lead, and
impossible to drive.  His stature was rather tall, and he was
well-made and wiry, and had a stately integrity of port; there
was not a suspicion of the clown about him any where.
I did not find it easy to sketch Mr. Yorke's person, but it is
more difficult to indicate his mind. If you expect to be treated to a perfection, reader, or even to a benevolent, philanthropic old gentleman in him, you are mistaken.  HIe has
spoken with some sense, and with some good feeling, to Mr.
Moore, but you are not thence to conclude that he always
spoke and thought justly and kindly.
Ml~r. Yorke, in the first place, was without the organ of veneration-a great want, and which throws a man wrong on
every point where veneration is required. Secondly, he was
without the organ of comparison-a deficiency which strips a
man of sympathy; and, thirdly, he had too little of the organs
of benevolence and ideality, which took the glory and softness
from his nature, and for him diminished those divine qualities
throughout the universe.
The want of veneration made him intolerant to those above
hrm: kings, and nobles, and priests; dynasties, and parliamrents, and establishmnents, with all their doings, most of their




MR. YORKE.                      43
enactments, their forrns, their rights, their claims, were to himrn
an abomination —all rubbish; he found no use or pleasure in
them, and believed it would be clear gain, and no damage to
the world, if its high places were razed, and their occupants
crushed in the fall.  The want of veneration, too, made him
dead at heart to the electric delight of admiring what is aria
mirable; it dried up a thousand pure sources of enjoyment; it
withered a thousand vivid pleasures. -le was not irreligious,
though a member of no sect, but his relifion could not be that
of one who knows how to venerate. I-Ie believed in God and
heaven, but his God and heaven were those of a man in whom
awe, imagination, and tenderness lack.
The weakness of his powers of comparison made himr inconsistent; while he professed some excellent general doctrines of
mutual toleration and forbearance, he cherished toward certain classes a bigoted antipathy: he spoke of" parsons" and
all who belonged to parsons, of " lords" and the appendages
of lords, with a harshness, sometimes an insolence, as unjust
as it was insufferable. He could not place himself in the position of those he vituperated; he could not compare their errors with" their temptations, their defects with their disadvantages; he could not realize the effect of such and such
circumstances on himself similarly situated, and he would
often express the most ferocious and tyrannical wishes regarding those who had acte(l, as he thought, ferociously and tyrannically. To judge by his threats, he would have employed
arbitrary, even cruel means to advance the cause of freedom
and equality.. Equality-yes, Mr. Yorke talked about equality, but at heart he was a proud man; very friendly to his
work-people, very good to all who were beneath him, and submitted quietly to be beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub
to whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no man) his
superior. Revolt was in his blood; he could not bear control; his father, his grandfather before him could not bear it,
and his children after him never could.
The want of general benevolence made him very impatient
of imbecility, "and of all faults Which grated on his strong,
shrewd nature: it left no check to his cutting sarcasm. As
he was not muerciful, he would sometimes wound and wround
again, without noticing how much he hurt, or caring how
deep hle thrust.




4t                    8  It 1 L E Y
As to the paucity of ideality in hbs mind, tlat can scarcely
be called a fault: a fine ear bfor music, a correct eye for color
and form, left him the quality of taste, and who cares for irm.
agination? Who does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute-akin to weakness-perhaps partaking of frenzy
— a disease rather thani a gift of the mind?
Probably all think it so, but those who possess-or fancy
they possess-it;.  To hear them  speak, you would believe
that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow
about them; that their eyes would be dim if that flame did
not refine their vision; that they would be lonely if this
strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that
it imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter
which you do not feel. All illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it for gold.
As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he
considered it a most superfluous quality in others.  Painters
and musicians he could tolerate, and even encourage, because
he could relish the results of their art; he could see the charm
of a fine picture, and feel the pleasure of good music; but ta
quiet poet-whatever force struggled, whatever fire glowed in
hisI breast-if he could not have played the man in the countin-g-houe, or the tradesman in the Piece Hall, might have
lived despised and died scorned under the eyes of Hiram Yorke
And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is
well that the true poet, quiet externally though he may be,
has often a truculent spirit under his placidity, and is full of
shrewdness in his meekness, and can measure the whole stature
of those who look down on him, and correctly ascertain the
weight and value of the pursuits they disdain him for not having followed.  It is happy that he can have his own bliss, his
own society with his great friend and goddess, Nature, quite
independent of those who find little pleasure in him, and in
whom he finds no pleasure at all.  It is just that, while the
world and circumstances often turn a dark, cold side to himand properly, too, because he first turns a dark, cold, careless
side to them-he should be able to maintain a festal brightness and cherishing glow in his bosom, which makes all bright
and genial for him, while strangers, perhaps, deem his existenco a polar winter never gladdened by a sun.  The true




MIR. YORKE.                      -t5
poet is not one whit to be pitied, and he is apt to lauglh in
his sleeve when any misguided sympathizer whines over his
Wrongs.  Even when utilitarians sit in judgment on him, and
pronounce him and his art useless, he hears the sentence with
such a hard derision, such a broad, deep, comprehensive, and
merciless contempt of the unhappy Pharisees who pronounce
it, that he is rather to be chidden than condoled with. These,
however, are not Mr. Yorke's reflections, and it is with Mr.
Yorke we have at present to do.
I have told you some of his faults, reader; as to his good
points, he was one of the most honorable and capable men in
Yorkshire; even those who disliked him were forced to respect hin. lie was much beloved by the poor, because he
was thoroughly kind and very fatherly to themn. To his workmen he was considerate and cordial: when he dismissed them
fiom an occupation, he would try to set them on to something
else; or, if that was impossible, help them to remove with
their families to a district where work might possibly be had.
It must also be remarked, that if, as sometimes chanced, any
individual among his "hands" showed signs of insubordina.tion, Yorke-who, like many who abhor being controlled, Imknew
how to control with vigor-had the secret of crushing rebellion
in the germ, of eradicating it like a bad weed, so that it never
spread or developed within the sphere of his authority. Such
being the happy state of his own aftkirs, he felt himself at liberty to speak with the utmost severity of those who were differently situated, to ascribe whatever was unpleasant in their
position entirely to their own fault, to sever himself from the
masters, and advocate freely the cause of the operatives.
Mr. Yorke's family was the first and oldest in the district;
and he, though not the wealthiest, was one of the most influential men.  His education had been good; in his youth,
before the French Revolution, he had traveled on the continent: he was an adept in the French and Italian languages.
During a two years' sojourn in Italy, he had collected many
good paintings and tasteful rarities, with which his residence
was now adorned.  IHis manners, when he liked, wore  those
of a finished gentleman of the old school; his conversation,
when he was disposed to please, was singularly interesting and
original; and if he usually expressed hlimself in the Yorkshire
dialect, it was because he chose to do so, preferring his native




46                    S H I-HILiE~Y.
Doric to a mYore refined vocabulary.' A Yorkshire burr," lhe
affirmed,' was as much better than a Cockney's lisp, as a
bull's bellow than a ratton's squeak."
Mr. Yorke knew every one, and was known by every one
for miles round, yet his intimate acquaintance were very few.
JHimself thoroughly original, he had no taste for what was
ordinary; a racy, rough character, high or low, ever found
acceptance with him; a refined, insipid personage, however
exalted in station, was his aversion.  He would spend an
hour any time in talking freely with a shrewd workman of his
own, or with sonic queer, sagacious old woman among his
cottagers, when he would have grudged a moment to a tom.
mon-place fine gentleman, or to the most fashionable and elegant, if frivolous lady. His preferences on. these points he
carried to an extreme, forgectting that there may be amniable
and even admirable characters among those who can not be
original.  Yet he made exceptions to his own rule; there was
a certain order of mind, plain, ingenuous, neglecting refinement, almost devoid of intellectuality, and quite incapable of
appreciating what was intellectual in him; but which, at the
same time, never felt disgust at his rudeness, was not easily
wounded by his sarcasm, did not closely analyze his sayings,
doings, or opinions; with which he was peculiarly at ease,
and, consequently, which he peculiarly preferred.  Hie was
lord among such characters.  They, while submittingt implicitly to his influence, never acknowledged, because they never
reflected on, his superiority; they were quite tractable, therefore, without running the smallest danger of being servile;
and their unthinking, easy, artless insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient to Mr. Yorke, as that of the chair
he sat on, or of the floor he trod.
It will have been observed that he was not quite uncordial
with Mdr. Moore; he had two or three reasons for entertaining
a fainfpartiality to that gentleman.  It may sound odd, but
the first of these was that Moore spoke English with a foreign,
anld French with a perfectly pure accent; and that his dark,
thin face, Nwith its fine though rather wasted lines, had a most
anti-British and anti-Yorkshire lokl.  These points seem
frivolous,. unlikely to influence a character like Yorke's; but.
the fact is, they recalled old, perhaps pleasurable associations,
they brought balk his traveli ng his youthful days. iHe had




MR. YORKE.                        47
seen amidst Italian cities and scenes, faces like Mlcore's; he
had heard, in Parisian cafi's and theaters, voices like his; be
was yomug then, and when he looked at, and listened to the
alien, he seemed young again.
Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had dealings awith himn; that was a: more sbstantial, though by no
mrans a more agreeable tie; fir, as his firml  had been connected with Moore's in business, it had also, in some measure,
been implicated in its losses.
Thirdly, 1he had found Robert himself a sharp man of business.  I-Ie saw reason to anticipate that he would in the end,
by one means or another, make money, and he respected both
ins resolution and acuteness, perhaps, also, his hardness.  A
fburth circunstance which drew them  together was that of
Mr. Yorlke being one of the guardians of the ruinor on whose
estate tHollow's-mill was situated; conusequently Moore, in the
course of his alterations and improvements, had frequlent occasion to consult him.
As to the other gue.a;  n ow present ia Mr. Yorke's parlor,
Mr. Helstone, between him and his host there existed a double
antipathy; the antipathy of nature and that of circumnstances.
Thle fr-iee-thiunker hated the' formalist; the lover of liiberty
detested the disciplina.rian; besides, it was said that in former
years, they had been rival suitors of the same lady.
Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young0, noted for
his preference of sprightly and dashing womenr: a showy shape
and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly seemed tos attract
him.  lie never, however, proposed to any of these brilliant
belles,  whose society he sought, and all at once he seriously
fell in love with, and eagerly wooed a girl who presented a
complete contrast to those he had hitherto noticed: a girl
witlh the face of a Madonlna; a girl of living marble; stillness
personified.  No matter that, when he spoke to her; she only
answered hir  in monosyllables; no matter that his sighs
seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned, that shl
never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, paid
himz no respect and no attention; no matter that she seemed
the opposite of every thing feminine he had ever, in his whole
life, been known to admire; for him Mary Cave was perfiet;
because somehow, for some reason-no doubt he had a reasjo
-he loved her.
C




itsS - IR L ES YIF.T.
eMr.:Ielstoae, at that titme curate of Briarfieid, loved Mar
too; or, at any rate, he finciect her.  Several others admired
her, lfor she was beautiful as a monlumental angel; but thO
clergymalin was preferred for his office's sake; that ofice proiably investing him with sonme of the illusion necessary to allure
to tile commnuission of matrimony, andt which Miss Cave did
not find in any of the young.vool-staplers, her other adorers.
Mr. HEelstone neither had, nor professed to have Mr. Yorke's
absorbing passion for her; he had lnoneof the hurmble reverence which seemed to subdue most of her suitors; he saw her
more as she really was than the rest did, he was, consequently,
-more master of her and himself.  She accepted him  at the
first ofier, and they were married.
Nature never intended Mr. Helstone to make a very good
husband, especially to a quiet wife.  lIe thought, so long as
a woman w,,as silent, nothing ailed her, and she wanted nothing.  If shle did not complain of solitude, solitude, however
continued, could not be irksome to her.  If' she did not talk
and put herself forward, express a. partiality for this, an aver
sionl to that, she had no partialities or aversions, and it was
useless to consult heer tastes.  He made no pretense of comprehending women, or comparing  them with men: they were
a different, probably a very inferior order of existence; a wilb
could not be her husband's companion, nmuch less his confidante, muchll les his stay.  His wife, after a year or two, was
of no great ilportance to hitn in any shape; and when she
one day, as lhe thought, suddenly-for he had scarcely noticed
ler decline-but as others thought gradually, took her le-ave,sf him and of life, and there was olry a still beautiful-fiattired mold of clay left, cold and white, in,he conjugal couch,
tie felt his bereavement-who shall say how little?  Yet,
perhaps,:moro than he seemed to feel it, for he was not a
man fiom whom grief easily wrungl tears.
H11is dry-eyed and sober mourning scandalized an old housekeeper, and likewise'a female attendant, who had waited upon
Mrs. Helstone in her sickness, and who, perhnaps, had had oppDrtunities of learning more of the deceased lady's nature, of
her capacity for feeling and loving, than her husband knew:
they gossiped together over the corpse, related anecdotes, with
embellishments of' her lingering deeline, and its real or sup.
posed cause; in short, they worked each other up to some




IR Y ORKE.,19
kdignation against the austere little man who sat examining
papers in an adjoining room, unconscious of' what opprobriuxr
he was tne object.
Mrs. Icelstone -was hardly under. the sod when rumors began
to be rife in the neilghborhooed that she had died of a broken
heart; these magnified quickly into reports of hard usagi,
and, finaity, details of harsh treatment on the part of her husband; reports grossly untrue, but not the lass eagerly received
ol that account.  Mr. Yorke heard them, partly believed
them.  Already, of course, he had no friendly feeling to his
successful rival; though himself a married man now, and
united to a woman who seemed a complete contrast to Mary
Cave in all respects, he could not forget the great disappointment of his lifi, andl when lhe heard that what would havo
been so precious to him had been neglected, perhaps abused
by another, he conceived for that other a rooted and bitter
animosity.
Of the nature and strength of this animosity, Mr. HIelstone
was but half aware: he neither knew how much Yorke had
loved Mary Cave, wlhat he had felt on losing her, nor was he
conscious of the calumnies concerning his treatment of her,
familiar to every ear in the neighborhood but his own. 1-o
believed political and religious differences-alone separated him
and MJr.'Yorke; had he known how the case really stood, he
would hardly have been induced by any persuasion to cross
his former rival's threshold.
MIr. Yorke did not resume his lecture of Robert Moore;
the conversation ere long recommenced in a more general
Ibrm, though still in a somewhat disputative tone.  The unquiet state of the country, the various depredations lately
committed on mill-property in the district, supplied abundant
matter for disaareement, especially as each of the three gentlemen present diflbred more or less in his views on theso
subjects.  Mr. Ilelstone thought the masters aggrieved, the
work-people uii'easonable; he condenmied sweepingly the widespread spirit of disaffection against constituted authorities, the.growing indisposition to bear with patience evils he regarded
as inevitable: the cures he prescribed were vigorous govern,
moent interference, strict magisterial vigilance; wllen neces
sary, prompt military coercion.




SH I RLE  Y.
Mir. Yorke wished to know whether this interhrence, vigilance, and coercion would feed those who were hungry, giva
work to those who wanted work, and whom no' man would
hire: he scouted the idea of inevitable evils; he said public
patience was a camel, on whose back the last atom that could
be borne had already been laid, and that resistance was now
a duty; the wide-spread spirit of disaffection against constituted authorities he regarded as the most promising sign of
the times; the masters, he allowed, were truly aggrieved, but
their main grievances had been heaped on them by a "' corrupt, base, and bloody" government (these were Mr. Yorke's
epithets).  Madmen -like Pitt, demons like Castlereagh, mischievous idiots like Perceval were the tyrants, the curses of
the country, the destroyers of her trade. It was their infatui;
ated perseverance in an unjustifiable, a hopeless, a ruinous
war which had brought the nation to its present pass. It
was their monstrously oppressive taxation, it was the infarnous " Orders in Council"-the originators of which deserved
impeachment and the scaffold, if ever public men did-that
hung a mill-stone about England's neck.
"But where was the use of talking?" he demanded —
W" What chance was there of reason being heard in a land
that was king-ridden, priest-ridden, peer-ridden-wNihere a lunatic was the nominal monarch, an unprincipled debauchee
the real ruler; where such an insult to common sense as hereditary legislators was tolerated-where such a humbug  as
a'bench of bishops —such an arrogant abuse as a pampered
persecuting established Church was endured and veneratedwhere a standing army was maintained, and a host of lazy
parsons and their pauper families were kept on the fat of the
land?"
Mr. IHelstone, rising up and putting on his shovel-hat, ok
served in reply, " That in the course of his life he had met
with two or three instances where sentiments of this sort l;aa
been very bravely maintained so long as health, strength, and
worldly prosperity had been the allies of him who professed
them; but there came a time," he said, " to af men,'when
the keepers of the house should tremble; when they should be
afraid of that which is high, and fear should be in the Way;'
and that time was the test of the advocate of anarchy and
rebellion, the enemy of religion and order. Ere now," he




MR. YORK E.                     5,1
afirmedL, he had been called upon to read " those 1prayers our
Church has provided for the sick, by the miserable dying bed
of one of her most rancorous foes; he had seen such a one
stricken with remorse, solicitous to discover a place for repentance, and unable to find any, though he sought it carefully
with tears. HIe must forewarn Mr. Yorke, that blasphemy
against God and tilhe king was a deadly sin, and that there
was such a thing as'judgment to come.'"
Mr. Yorke ", believed filly that there was such a thing as
judgment to come.  f it. were otherwise, it would be difficult
to imagine how all the scoundrels who seemed triumphant in
this world, who broke innocent hearts with impunity, abused
unmerited privileges, were a scandal to honorable callings,
took the bread out of the mouths of the poor, browbeat the
humble, and truckled meanly to the rich and proud-were to
be properly paid off in such coin as they had earned.  But,"
he added, " whenever he got low-spirited about such like goings-on, and their seeming success in this mucky lump of a
planet, he just reached down t' owd book (pointing to a great
Bible in the bookcase), opened it like at a chance, and he was
sure to light of a verse blazing wi' a blue brimstone low that
set all straight. He Iknew," he said,  "where some folk war
bound for, just as weel as if an angel, wi' great white wings,
had come in ower t' door-stone and told him."
" Sir!" said Mr. Helstone, collecting all his dignity. " Sir!
the great knowledge of man is to know himself, and the bourno
whither his own steps tend."
" Ay, ay! you'll recollect, Mr. Helsfone, that Ignorance was
carried away from the very gates of heaven, borne through the
air, and thrust in at a door in the side of the hill which led
down to hell."
"Nor have I forgotten, Mr. Yorke, that Vain-Confidence,
not seeing the way before him, fell into a jeep pit, which was
on purpose there made by the prince of the grounds to catch,vain-glorious fools withal, and was dashed to pieces with his
fall."
"Now," interposed Mr. Moore, who had hitherto sat a
silent but amused spectator of this wordy combat, and whose
ixndifierence to the party politics of the day, as well as to to the
-gossip of the neighborhood, made him an impartial, if apathetic
judge of the merits of such an encounter, " you have -bothl suf




*  1 H-I AT I Y. V
-ficintly blackl-balled each other, and proved how cordially you
detest each other, and how wicked you think each other. ]?or
my part, my hate is still running in such a strong current
against the fellows who have broken my frames that I have
none to spare for my private acquaintance, and still less for
such a vague thing as a sect or a government: but really,
gentlemen, you both seem very bad, by your own showing;
worse than ever I suspected you to be. I dare not stay all
night with a rebel and blasphemer like you, Yorke.; and I
hardly dare ride home with a cruel and tyrannical ecclesiastic
like Ir. Helstone."
"I am going, however, Mr. 3Mioore,' said the rector, sternly; " come with me or niot, as you please."
"Nay, he shall not have the choice; he shall go with you,"
respohded Yorke.  " It's midnight, and past; and -I'll have
nob'dy staying up i' my house any longer.  Ye mun gll go."
He rang the bell.
"IDeb," said he to the servant who answered it, " clear
theCm folk out o' t' kitchen, and lock t' doors, and be off to bed.
HI-ere is your way, gentlemen," he continued to his guests;
and, lighting them through the passage, he fairly put them
out at his fiont-door.
They met their party hurrying out pell-mell by the back
way; their horses stood at the gate; they mounted and rode
off-Moore laughing at their abrupt dismissal, I-elstone deeply indignant thereat.
CH!APTE1r V.
1OL.LOWl' S COTTAGE.
MAoonE's good spirits wmre still with him when he rose next
morning.  Hle and Joe Scott had both spent'the night in the
mill, availing themselves of certain- sleeping accommodations
producible fiom  recesses in the front and back countinghouses: the master, always an early riser, was up somewhat
sooner even than usual;  he awoke his man by singing  a
French song as he omlade llis toilet, 




HOLLOW'S CO TT A-G E.
4 Ye're not Custen dahi, -then, raistenr'?"  cri'ed jo.
"Not a stiver, mon gareon-whicht means, mny lad  get
up, and we'll talke a turn through the mill before the hands
come-in, and I'll explain my future plans.  We'll have the
machinery yet, Joseph: you never heard of Bruce, perhaps?"
"And'th'^ arrand (spider)?  Yes, but I heY: I've read th'
history o' Scotland, and happen knaw as imich on't as ye; and
I understand ye to mean to e say ye'll persevere."
"I do."
"' Is there nmony o' your malk' i' your -country?" inquired
Joe, as he folded up his temporary bed, and put it away.
"In I y country   Which is my country?"
" ~Why, France-isn't it?"
6, Not it, indeed  The circumstance of the French having
seized Antwerp, where I was born, does not make me aFrenclman.
" Holland, then?"
"I  am not a Dutchman  no:  w you are confounding Ant
werp with Amsterdam. "
"Flanders?"
"I scorn the insinuation, Joe! II,a Flarnand   Have I a
Flemish face?-the clumsy nose standing out-the mean forehead failing bacl-the pale blue eyes'a fleur de tdte?' Am
i all body and no'legs, like a Flamand?  But you don't know
what they are like-those Netherlanders.  Joe-I'm  an Anversois: my mother wras an Anv-ersoise, though she came of
French lineage, which is the reason I speal French."
" But your father war Yorkshire, which malis ye a bit
Yorkshire too; and ony body may see ye're akin to us, ye're
so keen o' making'brass, and getting ifbrrards,"
"Joe, you're an impudent dog; but I've always been accustomed to a boorish sort of insolence from my youth up: the
elasse ouvriere —that is, the working people in Belgium-G —bear
themselves brutally toward their employers; and by brutally,
Joe, I nean Brt,talement -which, perhaps, when properly
rranslated, should be rou^0.ghl5",
"'We allus speak our minds i' this country; and therm
young parsons and grand fblk fro' London is shocked at wer
inc vility,' and we likl weel enow to gie'em sumnmat to be
shocked at,'cause it's sport to us to watch'era turn up the
whites o' their een antld spreed out their bits o' hands, like as




JIA                    S H TR L E Y.
thley're flayed wi' bogards, and then to hear'eia say, nipplg
oft their words short, like- Dear' dear!'Whet seveges'
f 1ow very corse!'"
"You a? e savages, Joe; you don't suppose you're civilized,
do  dou?"
"Middling, middling, maister.  I reckon'at us mnanufacturing lads i' th' north is a deal more intelligent, and knaws
a deal mlore nor th' farm.ing folk i' th' south.  Trade sharpena
wer wits; and them that's mechanics, like me, is forced to
think.  Ye know, what wi' looking after machinery and siceh
like, I've getten into that way that when I see anl effect, I
look straight out for a cause, and I oft lig. hold on't to purpose; and. then I like reading, and I'm curious to knaw what
theml that rechons to govern us aims to do for us and wi' us:
and there's many'cuter nor me; there's many a one amang
them  greasy chaps'at smneils o' oil, and amang them dyers
wi' blue and black skins, that has a long head, and that can
tell what a fooil of a law is, as wrcll as ye or old Yoroke, and -a
deal better nor soft'uns like Christopher Sykes o' W:hinbury,
and greet hectoring nowts like youd' Irish Peter, 1ielstone's
curate."'
" You ifi.nlk yourself a clever Eifdlow, I know, Scott."
" Ay! I'm  fairish; I can tell cheese fio' chalk, and I'm
varry weel aware that I've improved sich opportunities as I
have had, a deal better nor some'at reckons to be aboon me;
but there's thousands i' Yorkshire that's as good'as me, and,a two-three that's better."
" fYou're a great man-you're a sub!-imne fellow; but you're
a prig, a conceited noodle with it all, Joe!  You need not to
thinl  that because you've  picked up a little knowledge of
practical mathematics, and because you have found some
sWantling of the elements of chemistry at the bottom of a dyeing vat, that therefore you're a neglected man of science; and
you need not to suppose that because the course of trade does
not always run smooth, and you, and such as you, are sometimes short of work and of bread, that therefore your class are
martyrs, and that the whole form of government under which
you live is wrong.  And, moreover, you need not for a nornent
to insinuate that the virtues have taken refuge in cottages and
wholly abandoned slated houses.  Let me tell you, I particua
[arly abominate that sort of trash, because I know eo weU




HOLLOW'S COTTAGE. i5
that hu-nan nature is human nature every where, whetlhet
under the tile or thatch, and that in every specimen of human
nature that breathes, vice and virtua are ever found blended,
in smaller or greater proportions, and that the proportion is
not determined by station.  I have seen villains who were
rich, and I have seen villains who were poor, and I have seen
villains who were neither rich nor poor, but who had realized
Agar's wish, and li.ved in fair and n-modest competency.  The
clock is going to strike six: away with you, Joe, and ring the
mill-bell."
It was now the middle of the month of February; by six
o'clock, therefore,' dawn was just beginning to steal on night,
to penetrate with a pale ray its brown obscurity, and give a
demi-translucence to its opaque shadows.  Pale enough that
ray was on this particular morning; no color tinged the east,
no flush warmed it.  To see what a heavy lid day slowly
lifted, what a wan glane she flung along the hills, you would
have thought the sun's fire quenched in last night's floods.
The breath of this morning was chill as its aspect; a raw
wind stirred the mass of night;-cloud, and showed, as it slowly
rose-leaving a colorless, silver-gleaminug ring all round the
horizon —not blue sky, butt a stratum of paler vapor beyond.
It had ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden, and the pools
and rivulets were full.
The mill-windows were alight, the bell still rung load, and
now the little children came running in, in too great a hurry,
let us hope, to feel very much nipped by the inclement air;
and, indeed, by contrast, perhaps the morning appeared rather
favorable to them than otherwise; for they had often come to
their work that winter through snow-storms, through heavy
rain, through hard frost.
Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them pass: he'
counted them  as they went by; to those who camne rather:
late he said a word of reprimand, which was a little more
sharply repeated by Joe Scott when the lingerers reached the
~worlk-rooms.  Neither master nor overlooker spoke savagely;
they -were not savage men either of them, though it appeared
both were rigid, for they fined a delinquent who came considerably too late; Mr. Moore made him pay his penny down
ere he entered, and infbrmed him that the next repetition of'the fault would cost lhim twopence.
C*




5,''' 8!       L' SHIRLEY.
Rvules, no doubt;, are nlecessary in'uch cases, and coar'se
anit cruel masters will make coarse and cruel rules, which, at
the time we treat of, at least, they used sometimes to enforce
tyrannically; but, though I describe imperfect characters
(every character in this book will be found to be more or less
imperfect, my pen refusing to draw any thing in the model
line), I have not undertaken to handle degraded or utterly
infamous ones.  Child-torturers, slave-masters and drivers, 1
consign to the hands of jailers; the novelist may be excused
fiom sullying his page with the record of their deeds.'Instead, then, of harrowing up my reader's. soul, and delighting his organ of wonder, with effective descriptions of
stripes and scourgrigs, I am happy to be ab;e to inform hiri
that neither Mr. Moore nor his overlooker ever struck a child
ia their mill.  Joe had, indeed, once very severely flogged a
son of his ow-n for teliJng a lie and persisting in it,: but, like
his employer, he was too phlegmatic, too:calm, as well as too
reasonable a man, to make corporeal chastisement other th1an
the exception to his treatment of the young.
Mr. 3Moore haunted his mill, his mill-yard, his dye-house,
and his warehouse, till the sickly dawn strengtlhened into day.
The sun even rose-at least a white disk, clear, tintless, and
almost chill-looking as ice —peeped over the dark crest of,
hilI, changed to silver the livid edge of the cloud above it,. aoid
looked solemnly'down the whole length of the den, or narrow
dale, to  whose strait bounds we are at prcsent limnited. It.
was eihlt o'clock; the mill-lights were all extinguished;:tha
signal was given for treaklast;  the children, released for hcalf'
an hour from toil, betook themselves to the little tin cans which
held their cofTee, and to the small baslkets which contained 
their allowance of bread..Let us hope they have enought to
eat; it:wonld be' a pity were it otherwise.
And tnow, at last, Mr. Moorne quitted the mill-yard, andi
bteit iis steps to his dwellingd-hoimse.  It was onlDy a short dis-:
tance from the factory, but the hedge and high.bank on'each.
side'of the lane wrhich conducted to it seemed to give it' somlrething of-the appearance and feeling of seclusion.  It was a
small,:whitewashed place, with a green porch over the. door;
scanty brown stalks sbowed in the garden soil near this porch,.
and likewise beneath, the windows —stalks budless andliow.
erless now, but giviug dim prediction of trained and blooming




i-t  L L O W' -CO TT A GTE.           5,7
creepes ifor suwmmrer days.  A grass-plat and borders fronted
the cottagre; the borders presented -only black mold yet, except
where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots of snowdrop or crocus
peeped, green as emerald, from the earth.  The spring was
late; it had been a -severe and prolonged winter;_ the last
deep snow had but just disappeared before yesterday's rains;
on the hills, indeed, white remnants ofit yet gleamed, flecking
the hollows and crowning the peaks: the lawn.vas not verdant, but bleached, as was the grass on the bank, and under
the hedae in the lane.  Three trees, gracefully grouped, rose
beside the cottage; they were not lofty, but having no rivals
near, they looked well and imposing where they grew.  Such
was Mr. Moore's home; a snug nest for content and conternplation, but one within which the:vings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.
- its air of modest comfort seemled to possess no particular
attraction. br its owner; instead of entering the house at once.
he fetched a spade froim a little shed, and cbegan to work in
the garden.  For about a quarter of an hour he duc on uninterrupted; at length, however, a window opened, and a female
voice called to him"Elh, bien! Tu no dijeunes pas ce matil?"
The answer and the rest of the conversation was: in French.
but as this is an English book- I shall translate it into English.
"Is breakfast ready, IHortense?"' Certainly; it has been ready half an hour."
" Then I am ready, too:  -Thave a canine hunger."
HoIc threw down his spade and entered the house: the nar
row passage conducted him to a small parlor, where a breakfast of coffeice and bread and butter, with the somewhat unEnglish accompaninment of stewed pears, was spread on the
table.::. Over these viands presided the lady who had spoken
eirno  the window. I must describe her befbre I go any farther.
She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore, perhaps she was
thirty-five, tall, and proportionately stout; she had very black:hair, fbr the present twisted up in curl-papers; a high coloe
in her cheeks, a small nose, a pair of little black eyes.  The
lower part of her fice was large in proportion to the upper,
her for'ehead was small and rather corrugated; she:had a
fretful though not an ill-natured expression of coultenance;;




68Ng             ~~S II IRLE Y.
there was someithing in her whole appearance one fe t inclined
to be half provoked with, and half amused at.  Tlhe strangest
point was her dress: a stuff petticoat and a striped cotton
camisole.  The petticoat was short, displaying well a pair
of feet and ankles which left much to be desired in the article
of symnnmetry.
You will thinlik I have depicted a remarkable slattern,
aeader;-not at all. I-Hortense Mioore (she was Mr. Moore's
sister)  da.s a very orddeliy,-economical person: the petticoat,
amisole, and curl-papers were her morining costume, in which,
of forenoons, she had always been accustomed to "go her
household ways" in her own country.  She did. not choose to
adopt-English fashions because she iwas obliged to live in En.gland; she adhered to her old Belgian modes, quite satisfied
that there was a merit in so doing.
MI'-ademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself; an opini.on not wholly undeserved, tbr she possessed some good and:sterling qualities; but she rather over-estimated the kind and
degree of these qualities, and quite left out of the account
suntiry little defects which accompanied them.  You could.never have persuaded her that she was a prejudiced and. nar-.
row-minded person; that she was too susceptible on the sutbject ot her own dignity and imnportance, and too apt to take
offense about trifles; yet all this was true.  HIowever, where
her claims to distinction were not opposed, and where.hexh
prejudices were not olffnded, she could be k1ind and friendly
enough.  To Iher two brothers (fbr -there was another Gerard
Moore besides IRobert) she was very much attached.  As the
sole remaining representatives of their decayed family, the
persons of both were almost sacred in her eyes; of Louis,
however, she. knew less than of Robert; he had been sent to
England when a mere boi. and had received his education at
an  English school.  IIis cducation not being such as to adapt
him  for trade; perhaps, too, his natural bent.not inclininig
himl to mercantile pursuits. he had, when the blight of hered]tary prospects rendered it aecessary for him to push his own
fiertune, adopted the very arduous and very modest career of
a teacher;  he had been usher in a senool, and was said now
to be tutor in a private famrily.  HIortense, when she iml-i
tioned Louis, described him as having what she called " des
moyens," but as being too backward and quiet:; her praise of




HOLLOW'S COTTAGE.                       59
Robert was in a different strain, less qualified; she was very
fproud of him; she regarded him as the greatest man in El.rope; all he said and did was mlmarkable in her eyes, and
she expected others to behold him  from  the same point of
view; nothing could be more irrational, monstrous, and infsa
mnous, than opposition from  any quarter to rIobert, unless it
were opposition to herself.
Accordingly, as soon as the said Robert was seated at tho
breakfast table, and she had helped him to a portion of stewed
pears, and cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to
poul out a flood of amazement and horror at the transaction
of last night, the destruction of the friames.
"Quelle idee! to destroy them.  Quelie action honteu.se t
On vo yait bien que les ouvriers de ee pays 6taient a la ibis
bI, tes et mnehants.  C'etait absolument corinre les domestiques Anitlais, les servantes surtout: rein d'insupportable
comrnre cette Sara., par exempie!"
" She looks clean and industrious," Mr. Moore remarked.
"' Looks?  I don't know how she looks; and I do not say
that she is altogether dirty or idle: mlais elle est d'une insolence! She disputed with me a quarter of an hour yesterday
about the cooking  of the beef; she said I boiled it to rags,
that English people would never be able to eat such a dish.as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no better than greasy
warm water, and as to the choucroute, she affirms she car
noot touch it  That barrel we have in the cellar-delightriully prepared by my own hands-she termed a tub of hogwash, which means food for pigs.  I am harassed with the
girl, and yet I can not part with her lest I should get a worse.
[ou are in the same position with your workmen-pauvro
cher fi-re!'
"I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense."
"It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but
otherwise, there are certainly a thousand things which make
me regret our native town.  All the world here appears to
me ill-bred (mal-eleve).: I find my habits considered ridicau
ioUsi; if a girl out of your mill chances to come into the kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole preparing dinneL
(fbr yolu know I can not trust Sarah to cook a single dish),
she stneers.  If I accept an invitation out to tea, which I bhave
done once or twice, I perceive I amn put quite into the back.




ground; I 1tave not that attoention paid mne VWhi(hi decidedly
is my due;: of what an excellent family are the Gerards, ag
we Lmow, and the.Moores also! - They have a right to claim
a certain respect, and-. to feel wounded when it is withheld
from them.  In Antwerp, I was always treated with distinetion; here, one would think that when I open my lips in conm
pany I speak English with a ridiculous accent, whereas I am
qu ite:assured that I pronounce it perfectly.'"
H"iortense, in Antwerp we were known rich; in England
wve were neverl known  but poor."
"Precisely; and thus mercenary are mankind.  Again,
dear brother, last Sunday, if you recollect, was very wet;
accordingly, I -went to church in my neat black sabots —objects one would not, indleed, -wear in a fashionable city, but
which in the country I have ever been accustom ed to use for
wallking in dirty-roads.  Believe me, as I paced up the aisle,
composed and tranquil-as I am always  four ladies, and as
many gentlemen, laughed and hid their faces behind their
prayer-books."'"Well, rwell.! don't put on the sabots again. I told you
before I thought they were  not quite the tiing  for this
country."
"But, brother, they. are not common sabot,' such as the
peasantry wear.  I tell you,- they are. sabots noirs,'trs propreis, tris convenables;. At Mons, and Leuze-~eities not very
far: removed from the elegant- capital of BrusslIs —t is vert
seldom that..';he respectable people wear any thing else foi
walking in winter.- Let any one try 1to wade the mld of the
Flemish chaussdes in a pair of Paris brodequins, on -m'ei
dirait des nouvilles:!".' -
X"Never mind 3Mons and Leuze, and the Flemish chaun,
tees; do at I:.ome`as the Romans do; -and.as to the camisole
and jupon, I aum -ot quite sure about them, either.- I never
see an English lady cdressed in:such garments.  Ask-Caroline
Ielstone.'-                          - 
"Caroline!'I ask Caroline?  I eonsult- her about rly
dress?:It is she who on all points should consult "e; sle
is a child."               -
" She is eiglhteen, or at the least seventeen —old enough to
know all about gowns, petticoats, and chaussures.''
"Do not -spoil Carolinc I entreat ywu, brother; do not




HOLLOW  S COTTAGE. G                      i'
make her'of more consequene than -she oulght tod be.  At
present she is modest and unassuming: let us keep her so."
" With all my heart.. Is she coming this morning?"
"She will come at ten, as usual, to take her Frenchilesson."
"You don't find that she sneers at you do you?"
"She does. not; she appreciates me better than any one
else here; but thern she has more intimate opportunities ofi
knowing me: she sees that I:ha.ve education, intelligencee
manner, principles-a.ll, in short, which belongs to a person
well-born and well-bred."
"Are you at all fond of her?"
"For fond-I can not say: I am not one who is prone to
takleioleitt fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the
more to be depended on.  I have a regard for her as my relative; her position also inspires''interest, and her con'duct as
my pupil has hitherto- been such as rather to enhance'than
diminish the attachmient that springs from other causes'"
"She behaves pretty well at lessonis?' -
T'Qo 2ec she behaves very well; but you are consciois,
brother, that I have a manner ealcul'ated to repel over-familiarity, to win —csteem, and to'.ommanz d respect.  Yet, possessed of penetration, I perceiVe:clearly that Carolline is not
perfect-that:there is much to be desired in-her;"'
"- G -ive  mie a last cup df coffee, and while I am  driiking it
amluse  e me  ith an account of her'faults.":D' ear brother, I am -happyfo see you eat youir breakfas(
with relishi, after the fatiguing night you have passed.,'Caroline, then, is defbctive'; bNAt, — wi:t:my iorming handl:nd-itd
almost motherly care, she may improve.  There is about he6e
at occasional something —a reserve, I think-whiich  I do'nor
quite like, because it is' not sufficitiently-: g-ilish and subnmissive"
ani thler': are- gimpse of.an'unscttled hurry in her-:ia:ture
which put me out.  Yet she is usually most trancqLil —to
dejected and thoughtful, indeed, sometimes.  In time; I do'ubt
not, I shall make her uniformly sedate and decorous, wilth-out
being "iiaccountably pensive,:  I ever disapprove what is not
intelligible."."...I "-don't -understand your:,ccount in the least; what do
yOU m:ean by':unsettled hurries,' fbor instance?"
-";An: leample will, perhaps; be the most satisfactolSy ex
planation.  I sometimes, yol are aware, make her:read




62     -              SHIRLEY.
French poetry, by way of practice in prontiieniation.  She
has, in the course of her lessons, gone through much of Cor.
neille and Rlacine, in a very steady, sober spirit, such as I
approve.  Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of languor in the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking
rather of apathy than sobriety, and apathy is what I can
not tolerate in those who have the benefit of my instructions;
besides, one should not be apathetic in studying standard
works.  The other day I put into her hands a volume of
short fugitive pieces.  I sent her to the window to learn one
by heart, and when I[ looked up I saw her turning the leaves
over impatiently, and curling her lip, absolutely with scorn,
as she surveyed the little poems cursorily.  I chid her.'Ma
cousine,' said she,' tout cela m'ennuie' la mrort.' I told her
this was improper language.'Dieu!' she exclaimedl;'I1
n'y a done pas deux lignes de poesie dans toute la litterature
ifancaise?' I inquired what she meant.  She begged my
pardon with proper submission.  Ere long she was still; I
saw her smiliinr to herself over the book; she began to learn
assidluously.  In half an hour she came and stood before me,
presented the volume, folded her hands, as I always require
her to do, and commenced the repetition of that short thing
by Chenier,'La Jeune Captive.'  If you had heard the
manner in which,.she went through this, and in which she
uttered a few incoherent comments when she had done, you
would have known what I meant by the phrase' unsettled
hurry.' One would have thought Chenier was more moving
than all tRacine and all Corneille.  You, brother, who have
so much sagacity, will discern that this disproportionate preference argues an ill-regulated mind; but she is fortunate in
a preceptress.  I will give her a system, a method of thought,
a set of opinions; I will give her the perfect control and
guidance of her feelings."
" Be sure you do, Htortense: here she comes. That was her
Ehadow passed the window, I believe."
"Ah! truly. She is too early; half an hour before her time.
WIy child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted I"
This question was addressed to an individual who now entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a winter mantle, the
folds of which were gathered with some grace round an apparently slender figure




I-IOLLOW'S COTTAGE.                   (;
- 4 I came in haste to see how you were, I-jortense, and h1ow
Robert was, too, I was sure you would be both grieved by
what happened last nighlt.  I alid not hear till this morning:
my uncle told me at breakfast."
"Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us? Yout
uncle sympathizes with us?"
"My uncle is very angry; but he was with Robert, T
believe: was h'e not?  Did he not go with you to Stilbro'
Moor?"
"Yes:  we set out in -very martial style, Caroline; but the
prisoners we went to rescue met us half:way."
"Of course, nobody was hurt?"
" Why, no; only Joe Scott's wrists were a little galled with
being pinioned etoo tightly behind his back."
"' You were not there?  You were not with the wagons
when they were attacked?"
" No: one seldom has the fortune to be present at occurrences at which one would particularly wish to assist."' Where are you goin(g this morning?  I saw Murgatroyd
saddling your horse in the yard."'
" To 0Whinbury: it is marketday."
"Mr. Yorke is going, too: I m et him inl his grio. Come
home with him."
"Why?"
"Two are better than one, and nobody disliles Mr. Yorke,
at least, poor people do not dislike him."
"Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am hated?'
" Who are rnisundler'stood: that, probably, is the word.
Shall you be late?  Will he be late, cousin Hortense?"
" It is too probable:' he has often much business to transact
at 5Whinbury.  Have you brought your exercise-book, child?"
"Yes.  Wvllat time will you return,- obert?"
"I generally return at seven.  Do you wish me to be at
home earlier?"
I" Try rather to be back, by six.  It is not absolutely dark
at six now; but by seven daylight is quite gone."
" Ald i what danger is to be apprehended, Caroline, when
dayli ght is gone?  What peril do you conceive comes as the
companion of darlkness, bfor me 2"
"I  amn not sure that I can define mny fears; but we all
have a certair anxiety at present about c.ir friends.  My tun




8-tI i'R  IiR     Y.
cIe calls-tlhese tiimes dangerous  li he sayv, tjno, that mill-owners
are unpopular." 
"And I one of the most unpopular?  Is not that the fact?
You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart you think:
mile liable to Pearson's fate, who was shot at-not, indeed, fron
behind a hedge, but in his ownA house, through his stairease:
window, as he wvas g-oing to bed."
"Anne Pearson showed me the bullet in the chamber-door,"
emarked Caroline, gravely, as she folded her mantle, and arranlged it anud her muff  on a side-table.' You know," she
continuted, "' there is a hedge all the way alollng the road fro'rn
here to To hinbury, and there are the Fieldhead plantations io
p}ass; but you will be back by six —or before I"
" Certainly he will," aflirmed HIortense.  "And now, my
child, prepare your lessons for repetition, while I put the pease
to soak for the pur6e at dinner."
TWith -this direction, -shle left the roon..'You suspect I hav e many enemies then, Caroline 1" said
Mr. Mlloore; "  uand, doubtless, you knowrme to be destitute of
firiends 3
"Not destitllte, Robert.  There is your sister, -your brother
LouiS —whoym  I hEaveL never seen —there is lMIr. Yorke, aind
thlere is mny uncle; besides, of course, many more."
Pob3ert smiled.  "You would be puzzled to name your'many m'ote,'  said he.  " But show me your exercise-book.
Wihua extremne pains you take with the writing: tIl y sister;
I suppose, exacts this care: she wants to form you in all
things after the model of a Flemish sohool-gi-rl.: Vhat life,are you destined for, Caroline?  What -will you do -with youi
French, drawing, and other accomplishments,: when they are
acquired 2"
" You may well say, when. they are acquired; for, as you
are. aware, till I-Iortense began to teach lme, I knlew precious
little.  As to the life I anl destined for. I can not tell; I suppose, to keep my uncle's house till-," she hesitated.
"Till what?  Till he'dies             -. 
"]N0o.  How harsh to say that'  I never think of his dy'
ing: he is only fifty-five.  But till-in short, till eve..ts ofibr
othlr occupations for me."' A remarkably vague prospect' Are you conten at  ith it'"
"I used to be. formerly.  Children, you know, have little




HOLLO W'S   r    iTAG. A;
reflection, or, rather, their -refections run 0ot ideal theiCm1.
r'There are moments novw when I am not quite satisfied."
i WVhy 2"
"I am making no money —-earning nzothin.'
"You come to the point, Lina; you, too, then, wiish to
make moneyv.",'I do: ]: should like an occupation; and if I were a boy, iit
would not be so difficult to find one. I see such an easy, pileas,
ant way of learning a business, and making my way in life."
"Go on: let us hear what way."
"[  could be apprenticed to your trade-thie cloth-trade': 
eould learn it of you, as     are   distant relations.  I would de
the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the letters,
while you went to market.  I iknow you greatly desire to be
rich, in order to pay your father's debts; perhaps I could help
you to get rich."
-" Help ne?  Tou should think ofyourself."'
"I do think of myself; but must one forever think only of
one's self."
"Of whom else do I think. Of whom else dclae I think'?
The poor ought to have no large sympathies; it is their duity
to'be inarrow,"
No, - Robert-."
"Yes, Caroline.  Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted;
groveling, aanxious.  Now and then a poor man's heart, whle
certain beams and dews visit it, may swell like the budding
vegetation in yonder garden on this spring -day, may feel ripe
to evolve in foliage-perhaps blossom; but he must not encourage the pleasant impulse; he must invoke prudence to
check it with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping
as any north wind."
"No cottage would be happy then.'
"When I speak of poverty, I do not so mucnhmnean the natural, habitual poverty of the working-man as the embarrassedl
penury of the man in debt; my grub-worm is always a strait
tsned, struggling, care-worn tradesman.".i. Cherish- hope, nct anxiety.  Certain ideas have becolne
too fixed in your mind.  It may be presumptuous to say it,:
I)at; I have the impression that there is something vwiromrg in
your notions of the best means of attainig  haping ane; as there
is i      -—.   Second hesitation.




8IHIRLEY.'  am all ear, Caroline."
"In —(oera g' e 1 let nme speak the truth) —in your Yannec
-mind, I say only ma7nner —to these Yorkshire work-people.'
"You have often wanted to tell men that, have you not 1"
"Yes; often-very often."
" The faults of iay manner are, I think, only negative.  I
am not proud.: what has a man in my position to be proud
of   I am only taciturn, phlegmatic, and joyless."
"As if your living cloth-dressers were all machines, like your
fr'ames and shears  in your own house you seem different."' To those of my own house I am no alien, which I am to
these English clowns.  I mnight act the benevolent with them,
but acting is not my forte.  I find them irrational, perverse;
they hinder me when I long to hurry forward.  In treating
them justly. I fulfill my whole duty toward them."'You don't expect them to love you, of course?"
"Nor wish it."
" Alh!" said the monitress, shaking her head, and heaving
a deep sirgh.  W~ith this ejaculation, indicative that she perceived a screw to be loose sonewhere, but that it was, out of
her reach to set it right, she bent over her grammar, and
sought the rule and exercise for the day.
"I suppose I: amn not an affectionate mnan Caroline; the
attachment of a very few suffices me."
"If you please; tRobert, will you mend -me a pen or two
before you go.'
"' First, let me rule your book, for you always contrive to
draw the lines aslant....   T here now...   And now for
the pens: you like a fine one, I think?"
" Such as you generally make for me and Holteinse; not
your own broad points."
"If I were of Louis's calling, I might stay at home and
dedicate this morning to you and your studies; -rwhereas I
must spend it in Sykes' wool-warehouse."
"You will be making money."
"More likely losing it.'"
As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled and
bridled, was brought up to the garden gate.
"There, Fred. is ready for me; I must go.  I'll take one
look to see what the spring has done in the south border, too,
firsts 




HOLLO V'S COTTAGE.                     67
-lIe quitted the room, and went out into the garden-ground
behind the mill. A sweet frilngeof young verdure and opening
flowers-snowdrop, crocus, even primrose-bloomed in the
suishine under the hot wall of the factory.  Moore plucked
here and there a blossom and leaf, till he had collected a little.
bouquet; he returned to the parlor, pilfered a thread of silk
from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and laid them
on Caroline's desk..
"Now, good mnorninilg."
"Thankl you, Robert; it is pretty; it looks, as it lies there,
like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky: good morning."
He went to the door-stopped —opened his lips as if to
speak-said nothing, and moved on. Hie passed through the
wicket, and mounted his horse: in a second, he had flung
hinself from the saddle again, transferred the reins to Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.
"  forgot my gloves," he said, appearing to take something
from the side-table; then, as an impromptu thought, he remarked, "You have no binding engagement at home, perhlaps,
Caroline?'"
" I never have: some children's socks, whlich Mrs. Ramsdeu
has ordered, to knit-for the Jew's basket; but they -will keep."
" Jew's basket be --- sold! Never was utensil better:amed. Any thing more Jewish than it-its contents, and
their prices-can not be conceived: but I see something, a
very tiny curl, at the corners of your lip, which tells me that
you know its merits as well as I do. Forget the Jew's basket,
then, and spend the day here as a change.'Your uncle
won't break his heart ati your absence?"
She smiled. ":No."
"The old Cossack! I dare say not," muttered Moore.
"'Then stay and dine with Hortense; she will be glad of your
conapany; I shall return in good time.'We will have a little
reading in the evening: the moon rises at half-past eight, and
I will walk up to the rectory with you at nine. Do you
agree?"
She nodded her head; and her eyes lit up.
[Mloore lingered yet two minutes: he bent over Caroline's
desk and glanced at her grammar, he fingered her pen, he
lifted her bouquet and played withk it; his horse stamped impatiently; Fred. AMurgatroyd( hemmed -and coughed at'the




43S....SHIRLEY.
gate, as ift' he wondered what in the w -ld his xna.mter was
doing.  " Good-morning," again said Moore, and finally van,
ished.
fHortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced her exercise
C1IAPTELS VI.
CORIOL ANUS.
MADEMOISsELLE MooRE. had that morning a somewhat absent-minded pupil.  Caroline forgot, again and again, the
explainations which were given to her; however, she still bore
with unclouded mood the chidings her inattention brought
upon her,- Sitting in the sunshine, near.the window, she
seemed to receive with its warmth a kind influence, which
made her both happy and good. Thus disposed, she looked
her best, and her best was a pleasing vision.
To her had not been denied the gift of beauty; it was not
absolutely necessary to know her in order to like her; she
was fair enough to please, even at the first view. He-er shape
suited her age; it was girlish, light, and pliant; every curve
was neat, every limb proportionate: her face was expressive
and gentle; her eyes were handsome, and gifted at times with
a winning beam that stole into the heart, with a language
that spoke softly to the affections. Her mouth was very
pretty; she had a delicate skin, and a fine flow of brown hair,
which she knew how to arrange with taste; curls became her,
~and she possessed them in picturesque profusion.. Her style
of dress announced taste in the wearer; very unobtrusive in
iashion, far from. costly in material, but suitable in color to the
fair complexion with which it contrasted, and in make to the.
slight form which it draped.  I-er present winter garb was of
merino, the same soft shade of brown as her hair; the little
collar round her neck lay over a pink ribbon, and was fastened
w th a pink knot: she woreno.other decoration.
So. much. for Caroline I-elstone's appearance; as to her




COQRIOL ANU                         e S
charactet or iatelect, if she hlad any, they  lunst speak foi
thernselves ill due timle.
1H1er connections are soon explained.  She was the child of
parents separated sooa after.her birth, in consequence of disagreement of disposition.  Her mother was the half-sister -of
Mr. Moore's father; thus3-though there was no mixture of
blood —she was, in a distant sense, the cousin of Robert, Louis,
and HIortense.  HIer: fther was the brother of Mr. Helstone
— a man of the character fiiends desire -1not to recall, after
death has once settled all earthly accounts.  I-e had rendered
his wife unlappy: the reports which were known to be true
concerning himn, had given an air of probability -to those which
were falsely circulated iespecting his better-principled brother.
Caroline had never known her mIother, as she was taken. front
her in infancy,- and had not since seen her; her father died
comparatively young, and her uncle, the rector, had for some
years been her sole guardian.  He was not, as we are aware,
much adapted, either by nature or habits, to have the charge
of a young girl: he had taken little trouble about her edueation; probably, he would have taken none if she, finding hercelf neglected, had not grown anxious on her own account,
and alsked, every now and tIlen, for a little attention, anlld fbr
the means of acquiring such amount of knowledgec as could
not be dispensed with.  Still, she hald a depressing feeling
that shie was inferior, that her attainments mwere fewer than
were usually possessed by girls of her age and station; and
very glad was she to avail herself of the kind oflbr made rby
hfier cousin -Iortense, soon after the arrival of the latter at
IHollow's-mill, to teach her French and fine needlework.
Mdllc, Moore, fbr her part, delighted in the task, because it
gave her importance; she liked to lord- it a little over a docile
yet quick pupil.  She took Caroline precisely at her own estimate, as an irregularly-taught, even ignorant girl; andl when
she found that shie made rapid and eager progress, it was to
no talent-no application in the scholar, she ascribed the improvement, but entirely to her own superior method of teaching; when she found that Caroline, unskilled in routine, had,
a knowledge of her own-desultory but varied, the discovery
caused her no surprise, for she still imagined that from. her
conversation had the girl unawares gleaned these treasures:
she thought it, even when forced to feel that her pupil knew




-0. 1 SII ShRIREY.
ilclh on subjects whereof she knew little; the idea was tnie
logical, but l-ortense had perfect faith in it.
Mademoiselle, who prided herself on possessing "uun esprit
positif," and on entertaining a decided preference for dry
studies, kept her young cousin to the same as closely as she
could.  She worked her unrelentingly at the fgammar of the
French language, assigning her, as the most improving exercise she could devise, interminable "analyses logiques."
ihese " analyses" were by no means a source of particular
pleasure to Caroline; she thought she could have learned
French just as well without them, and grudged excessively
the time spent in pondering  over "propositions, principales, et
incidentes;" in decidino the "incidlente determinative" and
the " incidente applicative;"  in examining whether the prop.
osition was "pleine, " "elliptique," or "implicite."  Some.
times she lost herself in the maze, and when so lost, she would,
now and then (while I-ortonse was rummaging her drawers
upistairs-an unaccountable occupation in which she spent a
large portion of each day, arranging, disarranging, rearranging,
anld counter-arranging) — carry her book to Robert in the
counting-house, and get the rough place made smooth by his
aid.  VMr. LToore possessed a clear, tranquil brain of his own;
almost as soon as he looked at Caroline's little difficulties they
seemed to dissolve beneath his eye; in two minutes he would
explain all; in two words give the key to the puzzle.  She
thought if Etortense could only teach like him, how mlluch
faster she might learni   Repaying him by an admiring and
grateful smile, raether shed at his feet than lifted to Ihis face,
she would leave the mill reluctantly to go back to the cottage,
and then, while she completed the exercise, or worked out tho
sum (for Mdlle. Moore taught her arithmetic, too), she would
wish nature had made her a boy instead of a girl, that she
might ask Robert to let her be his clerk, and sit with him in
the counting-house, instead of sitting with ilortense in tha
parlor. o
Occasionally-but this happenedl very rarely-she spent
tlie evening at 1Hollow's cottage.  Sometimes during these
visits, Moore was away, attending a market; sometim-es he
was gone to Mr. Yorke's; often he was engaged with a male
visitor in another room; but sometimes, too, he was at home,
disecngaged, free to talk with Caroline.  When this was t-le




COPrOLAANtU S7!
ease, tile evenring hiours passed on wings of light; they were
gone before they were counted.  There was no room in En-,
gland so pleasant as that small parlor when the three cousina
occupied it. Hortense, when she was not teaching, or scolding,
or cookinog, was far fiom  ill-humored; it was her custon to
relax toward evening, and to be kind to her young Englishi
kinswotman.  There was a means, too, of rendering her delightful, by inducing her to take her guitar and sing and play;
she then became quite good-natured; and as she played with
skill, andl had a well-toned voice, it was not disagreeable to
listen to her: it wouldl have been absolutely agreeable, except
that her formal and self-important character modulated lher
strains, as it impressed her manners and molded her counten.ance.
Mr. Moore, released from  the business-yoke, was, if not
lively himself; a willing spectator of Caroline's liveliness, a
comrplacent listener to her talk, a ready respondent to hot
questions.  IHe was something agreeable to sit near, to hover
round, to address and look at.  Sometimes he was better thbn
this-almost animated, quite gentle and fiiendly.
The drawback was, that by the next morning he was sure
to be frozen up again; and however mnuch he seemed, in his
quiet way, to enjoy these social evenings, he rarely contrived
their recurrence.  This circumstance puzzled the inexperi..
enced head of his cousin.  "If' I had a means of happiness
at my command, " she thought,' "I would employ that means
often; I would keep it bright with use, and not lebt it lie foi
weeks aside, till it gets rusty."
Yet she was careful not to put in practice her owln theory.
Much as she liked an evening visit to the cottage, she never
paid one unasked.  Often, indeed,,when pressed by Hortenso
to come, she would refuse, because Robert did not second, or
but slightly seconded the request.  This morning was the first
time he had ever, of his own unprompted will, given her an
invitation; and then he had spoken so klindly, that in hearinlg
him she had received a sense of happiness sufficient to keep
ier glad. for the whole day.
The morning passed as usual.  Mademoiselle, ever breath-i
lessly busy, spent it in bustling from kitchen to parlor —now
scolding Sarah, now looking over Caroliie's exercise or hearing her repetition-lesson.  However faultlessly these tasks
I)




72 2SH"                   I R LEY.
were achiictd,l she never commended: it was a maxim with
her that praise is inconsistent with a teacher's dignity, andi
that bla.nmO, in more or less unqualified measure, is indispens,
able to it.  She thought incessant reprimand, severe or slight.
quite necessary to the maintenance of her authority; and if
no possible error was to be found ill the lesson, it was the pupil's carriage, or air, or dress, or mien, which required correction.
The usual afli'ay took place about the dinner, which meal,
wTrhen Sarah at last brought it into the room, she almost flung
upon the table, with a loolk that expressed quite plainly, "1
niever dished such stuffi' my li-fe afore; it's not fit for dogs."
Notwithstanding Sarah's scorn, it was a savory repast enough.
The soup was a sort of purde  of dried pease, which Mademoiselle had prepared amidst bitter laimentations that in this
desolate country of England no haricot beans were to be had.
Then came a dish of meat-nature unknown, but supposed
to be miscellaneous-singularly chopped up with crumbs o:f
bread, seasoned uniquely thlougt not unpleasantly, and baked
in a mold   a queer, but by no means unpalatable dish.
Greens, oddly braised, formed the accompanying vegetable;
and a pat6 of fruit, conserved after a receipt devised by Ma.
dame G6rard Moore's " grand'mere," and from the taste of
wrhichl it appeared probable that" nmelasse" had been substituted fo-r sugar, completed the dinner.
Caroliine had no objection to this Belgian cookery: indeed,
she rather liked it for a change, and it was well she did so,
for had she evinced any disrelish thereof, such manifestation
would have injured herin Mademoiselle's good graces forever;
a positive crime might have been more easily pardoned than
a symptom of' distaste for the foreign comestibles.
Soon after dinner Caroline coaxed her governess-cousin upstairs to dress: this mancauvre required management.  To
have hinted that the jupon, camisole, and curl-papers wereo
odious objects, or indeed other than quite meritorious points,
-would have been a felony.  Any premature attempt to urge
their disappearan ce was therefobre unwise, and would be likely
to issue in the persevering wear of them  during the whole
day   Carefully avoiding rocks and quicksa nds, however, the
pupil, on pretense of requiring a change of scene, contrived to
get thle teacher aloft, aind, once in the bed-room, she persuaded




CO RIOLAN US.                    73
her that it was not worth while returning thither, and that
she might as well make her toilet now; and while Mademoiselle delivered a solemn homily on- her own surpassing
merit in disregarding all frivolities of fashion, Caroline denuded. her of the camisole, invested her with a decent gown,
arranged her collar, hair, &c., and made her quite presentable. But Hortense would put the finishing touches herself,
and these finishing touches consisted in a thick handkerchief
tied round the throat, and a large, servant-like black apron,
which spoiled every thing. On no account would Mademoiselle have appeared in her own house without the thick handkerchief and the voluminous apron: the first was a positive
matter of morality-it was quite improper not to wear a fichu;.he second was the ensign of a good housewife —she appeared
to think that by means of it she somehow effected a large
saving in her brother's income.  She had, with her own
hands, made and presented to Caroline similar equipments;
and the only serious quarrel they had ever had, and which
still left a soreness in the elder cousin's soul, had arisen from
the refusal of the younger one to accept of and profit by these
elegant presents.
I wear a highl dress and a collar," said Caroline, "and I
should feel sufibcated with a handkerchief in addition; and
my short aprons do quite as well as that very long one: I
would rather make no changre."
Yet Hortense, by dint of perseverance, would probably
have compelled her to make a change, had not Mr. Moore
chanced to overhear a dispute on the subject, and decided
that Caroline's little aprons would suffice, and that, in his
opinion, as she was still but a child, she might for the present
dispense with the fichu, especially as her curls were long, and
almost touched her shoulders.
There was no appeal against RIobert's opinion, therefore
his sister was compelled to yield; but she disapproved entirely
of the piquant neatness of Caroline's costume, and the lady
like grace of her appearance: something more solid and home-.
ly, she would have considered " beaucoup plus convenable."
The afternoon was devoted to sewing.  Mademoiselle, lilke
most Belgian ladies, was specially skillful with her needle..
She by no means thought it waste of time to devote unnumrn
bered hours to fine embroidery, sight-destroying lace-work,




71                    SHIRLEY.
marvelous netting and knitting, and, above all, to mnost elahorate stocking-mending.  She would give a day to the mendl
ing of two holes in a stocking any time, and think her' mission"
nobly fulfilled when she had accomplished it.  It was another
of Caroline's troubles to be condemnned to learn this foreign
style of darning, which was done stitch by stitch, so as exactly
to imitate the fabric of the stocking itself'; a wearifi' process,
but considered by Hortense Gerard, and by her ancestresses
before her for lonf generations back, as one of the first " duties
of womuan."  She herself had had a needle, cotton, and a fearfully-torn stoclking put into -her hand while she yet wore a
child's coif on her little black head: her "hauts faits" in the
darning line had been exhibited to company ere she was six
years old, and when she first discovered that Caroline was
profoundly ignorant of this most essential of attainmelts, she
could have wept with pity over her miserably neglected youth.
No time did she lose in seeking up a hopeless pair of hose,
of- which the heels were entirely gone, and in setting the
ignorant English girl to repair the deficiency: this task had
been commenced two years ago, and Caroline had the stockings in her work-bag yet.  She did a few rows every day, by
way of penance for the expiation of her sins: they were a
grievous burden to her, she would have much liked to put
them in the fire; and once Mr. Moore, who had observed her
sitting and sighing over them, had proposed a private incremation in the counting-house, but to this proposal Caroline
knew it would have been impolitic to accede-the result could
only be a fresh pair of hose, probably in worse condition: sh
adhered, therefore, to the ills she knew.
All the: afternoon the two ladies sat and sewed, till the
eyes and fingers, and even the spirits of one of them were
weary.  The sky since dinner had darkened; it had begnn
to rain again, to pour fast: secret fears began to steal on
Caroline that Robert would be persuaded by Mr. Sykes or
Mr. Yorke to remain at Whinbury till it cleared, and of that
there appeared no present chance.  Five o'clock struck, and
time stole on; still the clouds streamed: a sighing wind whispered in the roof-trees of the cottage; day seemed already
closing, the parlor-fire shed on the clear hearth a glow ruddy.
as at twilight.
"It will not be fair till the -moon rises," pronounced Made




CORI OLANUS.                        75
moiselte Moore;' ctonsequently, I feel asst red tthat my brothex
will not return till then.: indeed, I should be sorry if he did.
We will have coffee: it would be vain to wait for him."
"I am tired-may I leave my work now, cousin?"
"You may, since it grows too dark to see to do it well.
Fold it up; put it carefully in your bag; then step into the
kitchen, and desire Sarah to bring in the gouter, or tea, as
you call it."
" But it has not yet struck six: he may still come."' Ie will not, I tell you.  I carl calculate his movements
-I understand my brother."
Suspense is irksome, disappointment bitter.  All the world
has, some time or other, filt that.  Caroline, obedient to
orders, passed into the klitchen.  Sarah was: making a dress
tbr herself' at the table.
" You are to bring in cofie,"' said the young lady, in a spir
itless tone;- andcl then she leaned her arm and head againsl
the kitchen mantle-piece, and:hung listlessly over the fire.
"How  low you seem,- V iss! But it's all because you}
cousin keeps.you so close t-o work.  It's a shame?'
"N othing of the klind, Sarah," was the brief reply.
"Oh! but I lnow it is.  You're fit to cry just this minute,
for nothing  else but because you've sat still the whole day.
It would make a kitten dull to be mnewed uip so."
" Sarah, does your. master often come home early fr-om
malrket when it is wet?"
"N Tever, hardly; but just to-day, for some reason, he has
made a difference."
"What: do you mean?
"I-le is come-I am  certain I saw Murgatroyd lead his
horse into the yard by the back-way, when I went to get some
water at the pump five minutes since.  Ile was in the counting-house with-Joe Scott, I believe."
"You are mistaken."
"WShat should I be mistaken for? - I know his horse,
surely?"
"But you did not see himself?"
"I heard him  speak, though.  Hie was saying something
tb) Joe Scott about having settled all concerning ways and
means, and that there would be a -new set of firames in the
mill beiore another wreek passed; and that this time ib




76.s             S HI R LEY.
w-rold get four soldiers from  Stilbro' barracks to guard the
wagon."
"Sarah, are you making a gown?"
"Yes: is it a handsome one?"
"Beautiful! Get the cofflee ready; I'll finish cutting out
that sleeve for you, and I'll give you some trimming for itI have some narrow satin ribbon of a color that will just
match it."
"You're very kind, Miss."
"Be quick; there's a good girl: but first put your master-s
shoes on the hearth; he will take his boots off when he comes
in.  I hear him-he is coming."
"Miss! you're cutting the stuff wronlr.'
"So I am; but it is only a snip: there is no harm done.'
The kitchen-door opened;:Mr. Mtoore entered, very wet
and cold. Caroline half turned fiom her dressmaling ooen
pation, but renewed it for a moment, as if to gain a minute's
time for some purpose.  Bent over the dress, her face was
hidden; there was an attempt to settle her features and vail
their expression, which failed: when she at last mnet Mr
Moore, her countenance beamed.
"We had ceased to expect you;  they asserted you would
not come," she said.
"But I promised to return soon: yoi expected me, I sup.
pose?"
" No, Robert; I dared not when it rained so fast.  And
you are wet and chilled: change every thing; if you took
cold, I should-we should blame ourselves in some measure."
"  amn  not wet through-my. riding-coat is water-proof:
Dry shoes are all 11  require.  There.... the fire is pleasant
after facing the cold wind and rain for a few miles."
I-Ie stood on the kitchen-hearth; Caroline stood beside him.
Mr. Moore, while enjoying the genial glow, kept his eyes (directed toward the glittering brasses on the shelf above.
Chancing for an instant to look down, his glance rested on an
uplifted faee, flushed, smiling, happy, shaded with silky curls,
lit with fine eyes.  Sarah was gone into the parlor with tho
tray; a lecture from her mistress d&tained her there. Moore
placed his hand a moment on his young cousin's shoulder
stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.
"Oh!" said she. as if the action ha d unsealed her lips i "I




C O R I OL AN U-S.                 77
vwas mlserable tvllen I thought you wouLd no. come; I am
almost too happy now.  Are you happy, Robert?  -— Do you
like to come home?"
"I  think I do; to-night, at least."
"Are you certain you are not fretting about your frames,
and your business, and the war?"
"Not just now."
" Are you positive you don't feel Hollow's cottage too smati
for you, and narrow and dismal V"
" At this moment, no."
-' Can you affirm that you are not bitter at heart because
rich and great people forget you."
" No more questions.  You are mistaken if you think I ama
anxious to curry favor with rich and great people.  I only
want mneans-a position-a career."
"Which your ownl talent and goodness shall win you.
You were made to be great-you sarll be grdat."
"  wonder, now, if you spoke honestly out of your heart,
what receipt you would give me for acquiring this same great.
ness; but I know  it —better than you know  it yourself'.
Would it be efficacious? would it work?  Yes-poverty,
misery, bankruptcy.  Oh! life is not wlh0at you thijk -it,
Lina!"
"But you are what- I think you."1
I am not."' You are better, _then?"
"Far worse."' No; far better.  I know you are good."
" Htow do you know it?"
"You look so; and I feel you are so."
" Where do you feel it?"
" In my heart."
"Ah  you judge mCe Aith your heart, Lina; you slhoult
judge me with your head."
"I do; and then I am quite proud of you.  Robert, yol
can not tell all my thoughts about you."'Mr. Moore's dari face mustered color; his lips smiled, and
yet were compressed; his eyes laughed, and yet hIe resolutely
kInlit his brow.'  hink meanly of me, Lina," said he,  " {Men, in general,
are a sort of scum, very difierexnt to any thing f whAich yru1




T 8                    S H I RLEY
havr an idea; I make no pretension to be better-than my fellow."
" If you did, I should not esteem you so much; it is because
vou ar- modest that I have such confidence in your merit."
"Are you flattering me?':" he demanded, turning sharply
upon her, and searching her face wvith an eye of acute pence
tration.
"No," she said, softly, laughing at his sudden quickness.
She seemed to think it unnecessary to profibr any eager disa!
vowal of the charge.
" You don't care whether 1. think you flatter nme or not?"
N' No."
"Y'ou are so secure of your own intentions 3"
"i suppose so."
"'What are they, Caroline?'?' Only to ease rny mind by expressing for once part of what
I think; and then to make you better satisfied with yourself."
"By assuring me that my kinswoman is my sincere friend?"
"Just so; I am your sincere friend, PRobert."
"And I amn-what chance and change shall make me,
Lina."'" Not my enemy, however?"
Tihle answer was cut short by Sarah anld her mistress enterillg the kitchen together in some commotion.  They had been
improving the time which Mr. iMoore and Miss Heistone had
spent in dialogue by a short dispute 01on the subject of" caf6 an
lait," which Sarah said was the queerest mess she ever satw,
and a waste of God's good gifts, as it was "the nature of coffee to be boiled in -water;" and which Mademoiselle affirmed
mQ be' un breuvage royal," a thousand times too good for the
~mean person who objected to it.
The former occupants of the kitchen now withdrew into the
parlor.  Before Hortense followed them thither, Caroline had
only time again to question, "Not my enemy, Robert?" And
Moore, Quaker-like, had replied with another query, "Could I
be?" and then, seating himself at the table, had settled Caroline at his side.
Caroline scarcely heard Mademoiselle's explosion of WIIath
when she rejoined thlem; the long declamation about the
" codunite indigne de cette m6echante erdature" sounded in her
ear as ccnfusedly as the ag0itated rattling of the china. Rob-;rT




CO R 0LAN U S.                    7
laughed a little at it, in very. subdued sort, and then polttely
and calmly entreatilg his sister to be tranquil, assured her that
if it would yield her any satisfaction, she should have hei
choice-of an attendant among all the girls in his. mill; only he
feared they would scarcely suit her, as they were most of them,
he was infobrmed, completely ignorant of household work; and
pert and self-willed as Sarah was, she was, perhaps, no worse
than the majority of the women of her class.
Mademoiselle: admitted the truth of this conjecture: accord.
ing to her, " ces paysannes Anglaises etaient toutes insupport
ables."  Wlhat would she not give for some "bonne cuisiniere
Anversoise," with the high cap, short petticoat, and decent
sabots proper to her class: something better, indeed, than an
insolent coquette in a flounced gown, and absolutely without
cap! (for Sarah, it appears, did not partake the opinion of St.
Paul, that " it is a shame for a woman to go with her head
uncovered;" but, holding rather a contrary doctrine, resolutely
refulsed to imprison in linen or muslin the plentiful tresses of
her yellow hair, which it was her wont to fasten up smartly
with a comb' behind, and on Sundays to wear curled in front.)
I" Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?" asked Mr.
Moore, who —stern in public-was, on the whole, very kind
ill privalte.
" Merci du cadeau!" was the answer.  "An Antwerp girl
would not stay here ten days, sneered at as she would be by
all the young coquines in your factory;" then softening, "you
are very good, dear brother —excuse my petulance —but, truly,
my domestic trials are severe, yet they are probably my destiny; for I recollect that our revered mother experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all tile best servants in Antwerp: domestics are in all countries a spoiled and
lullruly set."
Mr. Moore had also certain reminiscences about the trials
of his revered mother.  A good mother she had been to him,
and. he honored her memory, but he recollected that she kept
a hot kitchen of it in Antwerp, just as his faithful sister did
here in England.  Thus, therefore, he let the:subject drop.
and when the coffee-service was removed, proceeded to con
sole Hortense by fe'ching her music-book and guitar; and,
having arranged the ribbon of the instrument round her neck
with a quiet fraternal kindness he, knew to be all-powerful in
l — *




80                    SHIRLEY.
soothing her most ruffled moods, he asked her to give hirn
some of their mother's favorite songs.
Nothing refines like affection. F}amily jarring vulgarizes —
fanmily union elevates.  Hortense, pleased with her brother,
and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her guitar, almost
graceful; almost handsome: her every-day fretful look Wvas
gone for a moment, and was replaced by a "I sourire plein de
bont6."  She sang the songs he asked for with feeling; they
reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached; they reminded her of her young days. She observed, too,
that Caroline listened with naive interest; this augmented her
good-humor; and the exclamation at the close of the song, "1
wish I could sing and play like IHortense!') achieved the busihiesS, and rendeted her charming for the evening.
It is true, a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the vanity
of wishing, and the duty of trying.  "As Rome," it was
suggested, "had not been built in a day, so neither had Madeinoiselle Gerard Moore's education been completed in a week,
or by merely wtishing to be clever. It was effort that had
accomplished that great work: she was ever remarkable fot
her perseverance, for her industry  her masters had remarked
that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much
talent united with so much solidity, and so on. Once on the
theme of her own merits, Mademoiselle was fluent.
Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took hew
knitting and sat down tranquil.  Drawn curtains, a clear fire
a softly shining lamp gave now to the little parlor its bestits evening charm. It is probable that the three there present
filt this charm   they all looked happy.
"What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked A]ri. bMoore,
returning to his seat beside his cousin,.
"What shall we do, Robert?" repeated; she, playfully.
"' You decide."'
"Not play at chess l"
"' Nor draughts, nor backgammnon T:'
"No-no; we botelhate silent games that only keep oneoi
hands employed, don't we?'
"tI believe we do: then, shall we talk scandal?"
"About'whom?  Are we sufficiently interested in any
body to take a, pi, asure in pulling their character to pieces?'.




C O RI O R  ANUS.                 81
"A question that comes to the point.  For mry part —un
amiable as it sounds-I must say, no."
"And I, too. But it is strange-though we want no third
— fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition glanced at
iHortense), living person among us-so selfish we are in our
happiness-though we don't want to think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to the past; to
hear people that hlave slept for generations in graves that are,
perhaps, no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak
to us and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas."
"cWho shall be the speaker?  What language shall he
utter?  French?"
" Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so impressively as your English ancestors, Robert.
To-night you shall -be entirely English: you shall read an
English book."
" An old English book?"
"Yes, an old English book, one that -you like; and I will
choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with some,
thing in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with'music; it shall pass like a skillful hand over your heart, and
make its strings sound.  Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but
the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it
is often silent.  Let glorious William come near and touch
it; you will see how he will draw the English power and
melody out of its chords."
" I must read Shakspeare?"
" You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his
voice with your mind's ear; you must take some of his soul
into yours."
" With a view to making me better; is -it to operate like a
oermon' "It is to stir you, to give you nrew sensations.  It is to make
you feel your life strongly, not only your virtues, but your
vicious, perverse points."
" Dieu! que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, who hitherto had
been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not umuch attended to what was said, but whose car these two strong
words caught with a tweak.
" Never mind her, sister: let her talkl; now just let her
may any thing she pleases to-night.  She likes to come down




t3>                   8 E;.   SHIRLEY.
]lard upon your brother sonetimnes; it amuses mie, so let heI
alone."
Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging
the bookcase, returned with a book.
"Here's Shakspeare," she said, "and there's Coriolanus.
Now, read, and discover by the feelings the reading will give.
you, at once how low and how high you are."
"Come then, sit near me, and correct when I imispronounce."
"I am to be the teacher, then, and you my pupil?"
"Ainsi, soit-il!"
"And Shakspeare is our science, since we are going to
stiudy."
"1t.appears so."
(' And you' are not going to be French, and skeptical, and
sneering?  You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom to'efuse to admire?"
"I don't know."
" If you do, Robert, I'll take Shakspeare away; and I'll
shrivel up within myself, and put on my bonnet and go
home"
" Sit down; here I begin."
One  minute, if you please, brother," interrupted Made
mnoiselle, " when the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies
should always sew.  Caroline, dear child, take your emnbroidcry: you may get three sprigs done to-night."
Caroline looked dismayed.  " I can't see by lamp-light;
rily eyes are tired, and I can't do two things well at once.  If
I sew, I can not listen; if I listen, I can not sew."
" Fi, done! Quel enfantillage!" began  Elortense, MI,
Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.
"Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this evening.
I wish her whole attention to be fixed on my accent, and to
insure this, she must fobllow the reading with her eyes; she
saust look at the book."
IHe placed it between them, reposed his arm  on the back
of Caroline's chair, and thus began to read.
The very first scene in "Coriolanus" came with sxnart rel
ish to his intellectual palate, and still as he read he warmed.
-He delivered the haughty speech of Cails Marcius to the
starving citizens with unction; he did not say he thought his




CORIOLANUS.                       A
irrational pride right, but he seemed to feel it so.  Caroline
looked up at hil with a singular smile.
"There's a vicious point hit already," she said, " you synmpathize with that proud patrician, who does not sympathize
with his famished fellow-men, and insults them; there, go
on.".He proceeded.  The warlike portions did not rouse hint
much  he said all that was out of date, or should be; the
spirit displayed was barbarous, yet the encounter single-handed
Letween Marcius and Tullus Aufidius, he delighted in. As
no advanced, he forgot to criticise; it was evident he appreciated the power, the truth of each portion; and, stepping out
of the narrow line of private prejudices, began to revel in the
large picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped
upon the characters who were speaking from that page befbre
hitm.
Ite did not read the comic scenes.. vel, and Caroline, taking
the book out of his hand, read these parts: for him.  From
her he seemed to enjoy them; and indeed she gave them
with a spirit no one could have expected of her, with a pithy
expression with which she seemed gifted on the spot, and for
that brief moment only.  It may be remarked, in passing,
that the general character of her conversation that evening,
wvheiether serious or sprightly, grave or gay, was as of something untaught, unstudied, intuitive, fitful; when once gone,
no more to be reproduced as it had been, than the glancing
ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, than the
color or form of the sunset cloud, than the-fleeting and glittering ripple varying the flow of a rivulet.
Coriolanus. in glory; Coriolanus in disaster; Coriolanus
banished, followed like giant-shades one after the other.,Befbre the vision of the banished man, Moore's spirit seemed to
pause. lIe stood on the hearth of Aufidius's hall, facing the
image of greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that low
estate.  eI-e saw  "the grim  appearance," the dark face
"bearing command in it," "the noble vessel with its tackle
torn."  With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly
sympathized; he was not scandalized by it, and again Caroa
line whispered"There, I see. another glimpse of brotherhood in error.
The march on Riome, the mother's supplication, the long
resistance, the final yieldingt of bad passions to good, which




G8 I                    4 SHIRLEY.
ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of noble
the rage of Aufidius at what he considered his ally's weakness,
the-death of Coriolanus, the final sorrow of his great enemy;
all scenes made of condensed truth and strength, came on in
succession, and carried with them, in their deep, fast flow, the
lheart and mind of reader and listener.
"Now, have you felt Shakspeare?" asked Caroline, sonri
ten iminutes after her cousin had closed the book.
I think so."
"' And have you felt any thing in Coriolanus like you?"
"Perhaps I have."
"'Was he not faulty as well as great?"
Moore nodded.
"And what was his fault?  What made him hated by the
citizens?  What caused him to be banished by his countrymen?"
"What do you think it-was?"
" I ask again-'Whether was it pride,
Which out of daily fortune ever taints
The happy man? whether defect of judgment,'To fail in the disposing of those chances
Which he was lord of? or whether nature,
Not to be other than one thing; not moving
From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace
Even with the same austerity and garb
As he controled the war?'"
W"'Well, answer yourself, Sphinx.'j
" It was a spice of all: and you must not be proud to your;vork-people; you must not neglect chances of soothing them,
and you must not be of an inflexible nature, uttering a request
as austerely as if it were a command."
" That is the moral you tack to the play.  What puts such
-notions into your head?'"
" A wish fbr your good, a care for your safety, dear Robert,
and a fear caused by many things which I have heard lately,
that you will come to harm."
"Who tells you these things?"
"I hear my uncle talk about you: he praises your hlard
spirit, your determined cast of mind, your scorn of low encd
mies, your resolution not' to truckle to the mob' as he sayst"
" Antd would you have me trucele to them?"




CORIOLANUS.                        8
"No, not for the world: I never wish you to lower yourself:
but somehow, I can not help thinking it unjust to include all
poor working people under the general and insulting name of'' the mob,' and continually to think of them and treat them
haughtily."
"'You are a little democrat, Caroline: if your uncle knew,
what would he say?"
"I rarely talk to my uncle, as you know, and never about
such things: he thinks every thing but sewing and cooking
above women's comprehension, and out of their line."
"And do you fancy you comprehend the sl~ubjects on which
vou advise me?"
" As far as they concern you, I comprehend them.  I know
it would be better for you to be loved by your work-people
than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is
more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud
and cold to me and HIortense, should we love you,?  When
You are cold to me, as you arme sometimes, can I venture to be
affectionate in return?"
"Now, Lina, I've had my lesson both in languages and
ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn.  Iiortense
tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you
learned the other day, a piece by poor Andre Ch16nier-' La
feune Captive,' do you remember it still?"
"I think so."
"Repeat it, then.  Take your time and mind your accent.
especially let us have no English u's."
Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but
gaming courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses
of Che6nier:$ the last three stanzas she rehearsed well.
"Mon beau vovage encore est si loin de sa fin!
Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin
J'ai pass6 1e premiers Ai peine.
Au banquet de la vie i peine commence,
Un instant seulement mes levres ont presse
La coupe en mes mains encore pleine.
* Caroline had nevter seen Millevoye's "' Jeune Malade," otherwise
she wrould have known that there is a better poem in the French lan.
guage than Chenier's "; Captive;': a poem worthy to have been written
in English-an inartificial, gecnuinc, impressive strain. To how many
other samples of French verse can the same epithets be applied w-ith.ruth?




SHIRLEY.
"Je ne suis qu'au printlenps —je veux voi la moisson;
Et comme le soleil, de saison en saison,,Te veux achever mlin anne.
Brillante sur ma tige, et l'honneur du jardin
Je n'ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin,
Je veux achever ma journ6e!"
Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he
furtiveiy raised them: leaning back in his chair, he could,watch Caroline, without her perceiving where his gaze was
fixed.  I-Her cheek: had a color, her eyes a light, her.countenance an expression, this evening, which would have made
even plain features striking; but:there was not the grievous
defect of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was
not shed on rough barrenness; it fell on soft bloom. -Each
lineament was turned with grace; the whole'aspect- was
pleasing.  At the present moment-animated,'interested,
touched-she might- be:called beautiful.  Sulch- a face was
calculated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of-esteem,
the distant one of admiration; but some feeling more- tender,
genial, intimate: friendship, perhaps- aflection, interest.'When she had finished, she turned to Moore, and met his eye.' Is that pretty well repeated?" she inquired, smiling like
any happy, docile child.
"I Treally don't knoW."
" Why: don't you know.  HIlave you not listened?"
"Yes —and looked.  You are fbnd of poetry, Lina?"
" When I meet with real poetry, I can not rest till I have
learned it'by heart, and so made it. partly mine."
Mr. Moore now sat silent -for several minutes.'- It strucek:
nine o'clock: Sarah entered, and said that MIr. IRelstone's
servant was come for M3iss Caroline.
~ Then the evening is gone already," she observed; " —andit will be long, I suppose, before I pass another here."
Hortense had been for some time nodding over her knitting;
fallen into a doze now, she made no response to the remark.
" You would have no objection to conime here oftener of an
evening?" inquired Robert, as he t'ook her folded mantle from
The side-table, where it still lay, and carefully wrapped it
round her.
"! like to come here; but I have no desire to be intrusive.
I am not hinting to be asked: you must understand tllat:"'
"Oh} I understand thee, child.  You somelimes lecture




THIE CURATES. AT TEA.                   87
me for wishing to be rich, Linai; but if I were rich, yoai should
live here always: at any rate, you should live with me, wherever my habitation might be."
~ "That would be pleasant; and if you were poor-ever so
poor-it would still be pleasant.  Good-night, Robert."' I promised to walk with you up to the rectory."
"I know you did; but I thought you had forgotten, and I
hardly knew how to remind you, though I wished to do it.
But would you like to go?  It is a cold night; and, as Fanny
is come, there is no necessity —— "
"Here is your mnufl —don't wake Hortense-come."
The half-mile to the rectory was soon traversed.  They
parted in the garden without a kiss, scarcely with a pressure
of hands; yet Robert sent his cousin in excited and joyously
troubled.  Hle had been singularly kind to her that day: not
in phrase, compliment, profession; but in manner, in look, and
in soft and friendly tones.
For himself, he came home grave, almost morose.  And as
he stood leaning on his own yard-gate, musing in the watery
moonligtl't, all alone-the hushed, dark mill before him, the
hill-environed hollow round-he exclaimed, abruptly"This won't do! There's weakness-there's downright
ruin in all this. However," he added, dropping his voice,
"the frenzy is quite temporary.  I know it very well: I have
had it before. It will be gone to-morrow."
CHAPTERiI VII.
TIHE CURATE:S AT TEA.
CArOLINE HELSTON~E was just eighteen years old; and at
eighteen the true narrative of life is yet -to be- commenced.
Before that time, we sit listening to a tale, a marvelous fiction;
delightful sometimes, and sad sometimes; almost always un.
real. Before that time, our world is heroic; its inhabitants
half-divine or semi-demon; its scenes are drearn-scenes: darkey
woods, and stranger hills; brighter skies, more dangeroua
waters; sweeter floiwers, moreP tempting fruits; wider plains




SHIRLEY.
drearier deserts, sunnier fieAds than are fomd in attireo, overspread our enchanted globe.  WVhat a moon we gaze oh befbre
that time! I-Iow the trembling of our hearts at her aspect
bears witness to its unutterable beauty_! As to our sun, it is
a burning heaven —the world of gods.
At that time-at eighteen, drawing near the confines of
illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind -ns, the shores of
Reality rise in front.  These shores are yet distant: they
look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them.  In sunshine
we see a greenness beneath the azure, as of spring meadows;
we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine the roll of living
waters.  Could we but reach this land, we think to hunger
and thirst no more; whereas many a wilderness, and often
the flood of Death, or some stream of sorrow as cold and almost as black as Death, is to be crossed ere true bliss can be
-tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned eec it is
secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have
wrestled for great prizes.  The heart's blood must gem with
red beads the brow of the combatant, before the wreath of
victory rustles over it.
At eighteen we are not aware of this.  Hope, when she
smiles on us, and promises happiness to-morrow, is implicitly
believed-Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel
to our door, is at once admitted, welcomed, embraced: his
quiver is not seen; if his arrows penetrate, their wound is like
a thrill of new life: there are no fears of' poison, none of the
barb which no leech's hand can extract: that perilous passion
— an agony ever in some of itsphases; with many, an agony
throughout-is believed to be an unqualified good: in short,
t eighteen, the school of Experience is to be entered, and her,,umbling, crushing, grinding, but yet purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learned.
Alas, Experience.! No -other mentor has so wasted and
frozen a face as yours: none wears a robe so black, none bears
a rod so heavy, none with hand so inexorable draws thi
novice so sternly to his task, and forces him with authority so
resistless to its acquirement.  It is by your instructions alone
that man or woman can ever find a safe track through iife's
wilds: without it, how they stumble, how they stray!  On
what forbidden grounds do theyintrude, down what dread
dcnlivities are they hurled!




THIE CURATES ATa"TA.                    B9
Caroline, having been convoyed home by Robert, had no
wish to pass what remained of the evening with her uncle.
the room in which he sat was very sacred ground to her; she
seldom intruded on it, and to-night she kept aloof till the bell
rung for prayers. Part of the evening church service was the
form of worship observed in Mr. Helstone's household: ho
read it in his usual nasal voice, clear, loud, and monotonous.
The rite over, his niece, according to her wont, stepped up to
himn.
" Good-night, uncle."
"Hey!  You've been -gadding abroad all day-visiting,
dining out, and what not!"
"Only at the cottage."
"And have you learnt your lessons?"
Y' es."
"And made a  lshirt?"
9 "Only part of one."
"Well, that will do- stick to the -necdle-learn shirtmaking and gown-making, and pie-crust-making, and you'll
be a clever woman some day. Go to bed now: I'm busy
with a pamphlet here."
Presently the niece was inclosed in her smanll bed-room;
the door bolted, her white dressing-gown. assumed, her long
hair loosened and falling thick, soft, and wavy, to her waist;
and, as, resting from the task of combing it out, she leaned
her cheek on her hand and fixed her eyes on the carpet, beforo
her rose, and close around her drewr, the visions we see at
eighteen years.
Her thoughts were speaking with her: spealing pleasantly,
6-s it seemed, for she smiled as she listened.  She looked pretty,
nmeditating thus: but a brighter thing than she was in that
apartment-the spirit of youthful hope. According to this
flattering prophet, she was to know disappointment, to feel
chill no more: she had entered on the dawn of a-summer day
-no false dawn, but the true spring of morning-and her sun
would quickly rise. Impossible for her now to suspect that
she was the sport of delusion: her expectations seemed warranted, the foundation on which they rested appeared solid.
"' When people love, the next step is they mrarry," was her
argument.  "Neow, I love Pobert, d I feel surethat lobert
loves me: I have thoughnt so many a time before; lto.day I




90~~             PStHRIRLEIY.
felt it. When I looked up at him after repeating Chenier's
poem, his eyes (what handsome eyes he has!).sent the truth
through my heart.  Sometimes I am afraid to speak to him.
lest I should be too frank, lest I should seem forward: fbr 1I
have more than once regretted bitterly, overflowing, superfluous words, and feared I had said more than he expected me
to say, and that he would disapprove what he might deem
my indiscretion; now, to-night, I could have ventured to express any thought, he was so indulgent.  I-ow kind he was,
as we walked up the lane! He does not flatter or say foolish
things; his love-making (friendship, I mean: of course I don't
yet account him my lover, but I hope he will be so some day)
is not like what we read of in books- it is far better-original,
quiet, manly, sincere.  I dco like him: I would be an excellent
wife to him if he did marry me: I would tell him of his faults
(for. he has a few faults), but I would study his comfort, and
cherish him, and do my best to make him happy. - Now, I
am sure he will not be cold to-morrow: I feel almost certain
that to-morrow evening he will either come here, or ask me
to go there."
She recommenced combing lheI.hair, long as a mermaids;
turning her head, as she arranged it, she saw her own face
and form in the glass.  Such reflections are soberizing to plain
people: their own eyes are not enchanted with the image;
they are confident, then, that the eyes of others can see in it
no. kfscination; but the fair must naturally draw other conclusions: the picture is charming, and must charm.  Caroline
saw a shape, a bead, that, daguerreotyped in that attitude
and with that expression, would have been lovely: she could
not choose but.derive from the spectacle confirmation to her
hopes: it was then in. undiminished gladness. she sought her
couch.
And in undiminished gladness she rose the next day: as
she entered her uncloes breakfast-room, and with soft cheerfulness wished him good-morning, even that little man of bronze
himself thought, ibr an instant, his niece was growing " a fine
girl."  Generally she was quiet and timid wit-h hinm: very
docile, but not communicative; this morning, however, she
ibund many things to say.  Slight topics. alone might be discussed between ithem; for with a woman-a girl —Mr. HIel-stone woul l touch on no other,  She had ttaken an early walk




TH-E CURATES AT TEA.                    91
in the garden, and slhe told him what flowers were beginning
to spring, there; she inquired when the gardener was to come
and trim the borders; she informed him that certain starlings
were beginning to build their nests in the church-tower (Br.l
arfield church was close to Briarfield rectory); she wondered
the tolling of the bells in the belfry did not scare them.
Mn leistone opined that "' they were-like other fools who
had just paired-insensible to inconvenience just fbr the moment."  Caroline, made, perhaps, a little too courageous by
her temporary good spirits, here hazarded a remark of a kind
she had never before ventured to male on observations dropped
by her revered relative.
-"Uncle," said she, " whenever you speak of marriage, you
speak of it scornfully: do you. think people shouldn't marry?"
" lt is decidedly the wisest plan to remain single, especially
for women.'
" Are all marriagfes unhappy?"
"Millions of' marriages are unhappy: if every body confessed the truth, perhaps all are more or less so."
"You are always vexed when you are asked to como and
marry a couple-why?"
"Because one does not like to act as accessory to the corn
mnission of a piece of pure folly."'Mr. Helstone spoke so readily, he seemed rather glad of the
opportunity to give his niece a piece of his mind on this point.
Emboldened by the impunity which had hitherto attended her
questions, she went a little:frther.
I" But why," said she, "should it be -pure folly?  If two
people like each other, whly should'nt they consent to live
together?"
"They tire of each other-they tire of each other in a
month. A yokefellow is not a companion; he or she-is a
1ellow-sufferer."  -
It was by no means naive simplicity awhich inspired Caroline's next remark: it was a sense! of antipathy to such opinions, and of displeasure at him who held- tllem.
"One would think you had never been married, uncle: one
would think you were an old bachelor."
"Practically, I am so."
" But you have been married.  Why were you so inconsist
ent as to marry?"




92                     IIHIRLEY.
i" Every man is mad oneeor twice in his life,",",So you tiredt of- my aunt, and my aunt of you, and yJu
were miserable together?"
Mr. Helstone pushed out his cynical lip, wrinliled his brown
forehead, and gave an inarticulate grunt.
"Did she not suit you?  Was she not good-tempered 
Did you not-get used to her?  Were you not sorry when she
died i"
"-Caroline," said Mr. Helstone, bringing his hand slowly
down to within an inch or two of the table, and then smiting
it suddenly on the mahogany, "understand this: it is vulgar
aiid puerile to confound generals with particulars: in every
case, there is the rule, and there are the exceptions. Your
questions are stupid and babyish.!Ring the bell, if you have
done breakfast."
The brealffast was taken away, and that meal over, it was
the general custom of uncle and niece to separate, and not to
meet again till dinner; but to-day the niece, instead of quitting the room, went to the window-seat, and sat down thnere
Mr, HIelstone looked round uneasily once or twice, as if he
wished her away, but she was gazing from the window, and
did not seem to mind him; so he continued the perusal of his
morning paper-a particuarly interesting one it chanced to
be, as new movements had just taken place in the Peninsula,
and certain columns of the journal were rich in long dispatches
fiom General Lord Wellington. He little knew, meantime,
what thoughts were busy in his niece's mind —thoughts the
conversation of the past half-hour had revived, but not generated: tumultuous were they now, as disturbed bees in a
hive, but it was years since they had first made their cells in
her brain.
She was reviewing his character, his disposition, repeating
his sentiments on marriage. Many a time had she reviewed
them before, and sounded the gulf between her own mind and
his: and then, on the other side of the wide and deep chasm,
she had seen, and she now saw, another figure standing beside
hbe uncle's-a strange shape; dim, sinister, scarcely earthly;
the half-remembered image of her own father, James Helstone,
rMatthewson Helstone's brother.
Rumors had reached her ear of what that father's character
vwas; oll servants had dropped hints: she knew, too, that he



TIhE CURATES  AT TEA.                 93
was not a good man, and that he was never kind to her, She
recollectet —a dark recollection it was-some weeks that she
had spent with him in a great town somewhere, when she had
had no maid to dress her or take care of her; when slhe had
been shat up, day and night, in a high garret-room, without
a carpet, with a bare, uncurtained bed, and scarcely any other
furniture;  when he went out early every morning, and often
forgot to return and give her her dinner during the day, and
at night, when he came back, was like a madman, furious,
terrible; or-still more painful-like an idiot, imbecile, senSeless. She knew she had fallenrr ill in this place, and that one
night when she was very sick, he had come raving into the
room, and said he would kill her, for she was a burden to him;
her screams had brought aid, and fiom the moment she was
then rescued from him she had never seen him, except as a
dead man in his coilin.
That was her father: also she had a mother; though iMlr.
Ifelstone never spoke to her of that mother; though she could
not remember hasing seen her: but that she was alive she
knew. This mother was, then, the drunkard's wife: what had
their marriage been. Caroline, turning frorm the lattice
whence she had been watching the starlings (though without
seeing them), in a low voice, and with a sad, bitter tone, thus
broke the silence of the room" You term marriage miserable, I suppose, from what you
saw of my father's and mother's. If my mother suffered what
I suffered when I was with papa, she mnust have had a dreadiil life."
Mr. Ilelstone, thus addressed-twheeled about in his chair,
and looked over his spectacles at his niece: he was taken
aback.
Ie1r father and mother! What had put it into her head
to mention her father and mother, of whom he had' never,
during the twelve years she had lived with him, spoken to
her-   That the, thoughts were self-matured; that she had
any recollections or speculations about her parents, he could
not fancy.
" Your father and mother I Who has been talking to you
about them ""Nobody; but I remember somethling of what papa was,
and I pity mamrna.  Where is she'"




-)4-                  SSI1IRLE.Y
This " Where is shei " had been on Caroline's lips hund.
reds of times before; but till now she had never uttered it.
"I hardly lknow," returned Mr. Helstone; "I was little
acquainted with her.  I have not heard from her for years:
but wherever she is, she thinks nothing of you; she never
inquires about you; I have reason to believe she does not wish
to see you. Come, it is school-time: you go to your cousin at
ten, don't you?  The clock has struck."
Perhaps Caroline would have said more; but Fanny coming
in, informed her master that the churchwardens wanted to
speak to him in the vestry.  li-e hastened to join them, and
his niece presently set out for tlie cottage.
The road from the rectory to Hollow's-mill inclined downward, she ran, therefore, almost all the wNray.  Exercise, the
fresh air, the thought of seeing Pi.obert, at least of being on
his premises, in his vicinage, revived her somewhat depressed
spirits quickly.  Arriving in sight of the white house, and
within hearing of the thundering mill and its rushing watercourse, the first thing she saw was Moore at his garden-gate.
There hee stood; ia his belted Holland blouse, a light cap
covering his head, which undress costume suited him: he was
looking down the lane, not In the direction of his coasin's approach.  She stopped, withdrawing a little behind a willow,
anrd studied his appearance.'" I-e has not his peer," she thought; "h e is as handsome
as he is intelligrent.  What a keen eye lhe has!  What clearly
cut, spirited features-thin and serious, but graceful!  I do
like his face-I do like his aspect —I do like him so much'
B'etter than any of those shuffling curates, for instance-better
than any body: bonnie Robert!"
She sought " bonnie [Robert's" presence speedily,  For his
part, when she challenged his sight, I believe he would have
passed from before her eyes like a phantom, if he could; but.
being a tall fact,. and no fiction,- he was obliged to stand tho
greeting.  I-Ie. made it brief: it was cousin-like, brother-like,
fiiend-like, any thing but lover-like.  The nameless charm of
last night had left his manner: he was no longer the same
man; or, at any Tate, the same heart' did not beat in his
breast.  Rude disappointmentt! sharp cross!  At first the
eager girl would not believe in the change, though she saw
and felt it.  It was diffieult to withdraw her hand from his,




THEE CURATES AT TEA.             /       3
till he had bestowed at least something like a kind pressare
it was difficult to turn, her eyes from  his eyes, till his looks
had expressed something more and fonder than that cool wellcomec.
A lover masculine so disappointed can spealk and urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothingi. if she did the
result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for self
treachery.  Nature would brand such demonstration as a
rebellion against her instincts, and would vindictively repay
it afterward by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting suddenly in secret.  Take the matter as youl find it: ask no
questions; utter no remonstrances: it is your best wisdom.
You expected bread, and you have got a stone; break your
teeth on it, and don't shriek because the nerves are martyrizedd: do not doubt that your lental stomach-if you have
such a thingo-is strong as an ostrich's-the stone will digest.
You held out your hand fbr an egg, and tite put into it a
scorpion.  Show no consternation: close your fingers firmly
upon the gift; let it sthig through your palm.  Never mind:
in time, after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered
long with torture, the squeezed scorpion -will die, and you will
have learned the great lesson how to endure without a sob.
For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the test —
some, it is said, die under it-yenou will be stronger, wiser, less
sensitive.  This you are not aware of, perhaps, at the times
and so can not borrow courage of that hope.  iNature, however, as hlas been intimated, is an excellent fiiend in such
cases; sealing the lips, interdicting utterance, commanding a
placid dissimulation: a dissimulation often wearing an easy
and gay mien at nrst, settling down to sorrow and paleness in
time, thein passing away and leaving a convenient stoicism,
nlot the less ibrtifying because it is half-bitter.
Ilalf:bitter i' s that wrong?  No- it should be bitterf 
bitterness is strengthl-it is a tonic.  Sweet, mild force lot
lowinr acute sufferinrg, you find nowhere: to talk of it is deiusion.  There may be apathetic exhaustion after the rack;
if energy remains, it will be rather a dangerous energy —
deadly when confronted with injustice.
Who has read the ballad of " Puir Mary Lee?"-that old
Scotch ballad, written I know not in what generation, nor by
what hand. Mary had been ill-used —probably in being made
ES




96                     SHIRLFY.
to believe that tlutan which was falsehood: she is not complaining, but she is sitting alone in the snow-storm, and you
hear her thoughts.  They are not the thoughts of' a model.
heroine under her circumstances, but they are those of a deeplyfeeling, strongly-resentful peasant-girl.  Agnguish has driven
her from the ingie-nook of' home, to the white-shrouded and
icy hills: crouched under the " cauld drift," she recalls every
image of horror — " the yellow-wymed ask," " the hairy adder,"
"the auld moon-bowing tyke," "the ghaist at e'en," "the
sour bullister," "the milk on the taed's back;" she hates
these, but " waur she hates RPobin-a-Ree!"
"Oh! ance I lived happily by yon bonny burnThe warld was in love wi' me;
But now I maun sit'neath the, cauld drift and mourn,
A)nd cturse black Robin-a-Ree! 
"Then whudder awa' thou bitter biting blast,(Reader, do you hear the wild sound of this line, sweepilng
over the waste, piercing the winter-tempest?)
"And sotugh through1 the scrunty tree,
And smoor- me up in the snaw fiu' fast,
And ne'er let the sun me see! 
"Oh, never melt awa, thou wreath o' snaw,
That's sae kind in graving me;
But hide rme frac the scorn and guffaw
0' villains like Robin-a-Ree:!"
But what has been said in the last plage or two is not ger
muane to Caroline Helstone's feelings, or to the state of' thiun
between her andtl  obert Moore.-  Robert had done her no.
wrong —he had told her no lie; it was she that was to blame,
if any one was; what bitterness her mind distilled should and
Nvvould be poured on her own head.  She had loved without
being askect to 1ve-a natural, sometimes an inevitable
chance, but big witth misery.
Robert, indeed, had somnetimes seemned to be fond of her —
but why?  B3ecause she had made herself so pleasing to him,
he could not, in spite of all his efforts, help testifying a state
of feeling his judgment did not approve, nor his will sanction,
IHe was about to withdraw decidedly fromu intimate communi —
cation with her, because he did not choose to have his aftiCtions'




TrIE CUltATlS AT TEA.                   97
iLextricably entangled, nor to be drawn, despite his reason,
into a marriage he believed imprudent.  Now, what was she
to do.?-to give way to her feelings, or to vanquish them —to
pursue him, or to turn upon herselft  If she is weak, she
will try the last expedient-will lose his- esteem, and win
his aversion; if she has sense, she will be her own governor,
and resolve to subdue and bring under guidance the disturbed
realm of her emotions.  She will determine to look on life
steadily, as it is; to begin to learn its severe truths seriously,
and to study its knotty problems closely, conscientiously.
It appeared she had a little sense, fbr she quitted Robert
quietly, without complaint or question-without the alteration
of a muscle or the shedding of a tear-betook herself to her
studies under Hortense as usual, and at dinner-time went
home without lingering.
When she had dined, andt found herself in the rectory
drawing-room alone, having left her uncle over his temperate
glass of port wine, the difficulty that. occurred to and embarrassed her, was-"' tHow am I to get through this day?"
Last night she had hoped it would be spent as yesterday
was-that the evening would be again passed with Happiness and RobertL: she had llearned her mistake this morning,
and yet she could not settle down, convinced that no chance
would occur to recall her to Hollow's cottage, or to bring
iMoore again into her society.
I-e had walked up after tea, more than once, to pass an
hour with her uncle: the door-bell had rung, his voice had
been heard in the passage just at twilight, when she little
expected such a pleasure; and this had happened twice after
he hadt treated her with peculiar reserve; and, though ho
rarely talked to her in her uncle's presence, he had looked at
her relentingly, as he sat opposite her work-table during his
stay: the few wortds he had spoken to her were comforting;
his manner on bidding her good-night was genial.  Now, he
Gmight come this evening, said False Hope: she almost knew
it was False Hope which breathed the whisper, and yet she
i.stened. 
She- tried to read —her thoughts wandered; she tried to
sew —-every stitch shs put in was an ennui, the occupation was
insifferably tedious; she opened her desk, and attempted to
write a French comInosition-she wrote nothing but rnistakes




9:3'~ SHIRLEY.
Suddenly the door-bell sharply rang-her heart leaped —
she sprang to the drawing-room door, opened it softly, peeped
through the aperture: Fanny was admitting a visitor —a
gentleman —a tall man, just the height of Robert. For one
second she thought it was Robert-for one second she exulted;
but the voice asking for Mr. Helstone undeceived her: that
voice was an Irish voice, consequently not Moore's but the
curate's-Malonq's.  lie was ushered into the dining-room,
Where, doubtless, he speedily helped his rector to empty the
decanters.
It was a fact to be noted, that at whatever house in Briarfield, Whinbury, or Nunnely, one curate dropped in to a
meal-dinner or tea, as the case might be-another presently
followed; often two more. Not that they gave each other
the rendezvous, but they were usually all on the run at the
same time; and when Donne, for instance, sought Malone at
his lodgings and found him not, he inquired whither he had
posted, and having learned of the landlady his destination,
hastened with all speed after him: the same causes operated
in the same way with Sweeting. Thus it chanced on that
afternoon that Caroline's ears were three times tortured with
the ringing of the bell, and the advent of undesired guests:
for Donne followed Malone, and Sweeting followed Donne;
and, more wine was ordered up from the cellar into the diningroom (fobr though old lcelstone chid the inferior priesthood
when he found them "carousing," as he called it, in their
own tents, yet at his hierarchical table he ever liked to treat
them to a glass of his best), and through the closed doors
Caroline heard their boyish. laughter, and the vacant cackle
of their voices. Her fear. was lest they should stay to tea;
for she had no pleasure in making tea for that particular trio.
What distinctions people draw! - These three were menyoung men —educated men like Moore; yet, for her, how
great the difference! Their society was a bore-his a
delight.
Not only was she destined to be favored with their clerical
company, but Fortune was at this moment bringing her four
other guests-lady-guests-all packed in a pony-phaeton fnow
rolling somewhat heavily along the road from Whinbury: an
elderly lady and three of her buxom daughters were coming
to see her " in a fiiendly way," as the custom of that neigh



TIHE CURATES AT T-;A.                   99
borhood was.  Yes, a fourth time the bell clanged: Fanny
brought the present announcement to the drawing-room"' Mrs. Sykes and the three Misses Sykes."
When Caroline was going to receive company, her habit
was to wring her hands very nervously, to flush a little, and
come forward hurriedly yet hesitatingly, wishing herself meantime at Jericho.  S1he was, at such crises, sadly deficient in
finished manner, though she hald_ once been at school a year.
Accordingly, on this occasion, her small white hands sadly
maltreated each other, while she stood upl, waiting the entrance of' Mrs. Sykes.
In stalked that lady, a tall, bilious gentlewoman, who
made an ample and not altogether insincere profession of
piety, and was greatly given to hospitality toward the clergy;
-n sailed her three daughters, a showy trio, being all three
well grown, and more or less handsome.
In English country ladies there is this point to be remarked:
whether young or old, pretty or plain, dull or sprightly, they
all (or almost all) have a certain expression stamped on their
features, which seems to say, " I know —I do not boast of it
-but I know that I am the standard of what is proper; let
every one, therefore, whom I approach, or who approaches
me, keep a sharp look-out, for wherein they differ from mebe the same in dress, manner, opinion, principle, or practicetherein they are wrong."
Mrs. and Misses Sykes. far from being exceptions to this
observation, were pointed illustrations of its truth.  Miss
Mary, a well-looked, well-meant, and, on the whole, well
dispositioned girl, wore her complacency with some state,
though without harshness; Miss Harriet, a beauty, carried it
more overbearingly —she looked high and cold; Miss Hannah,
who was conceited, dashing, pushing, flourished hers con*ciously and openly; the mother evinced it with the gravity
proper to her age and religious frame.
The reception was got through somehow. Caroline " was
glad to see them" (an unmitigated fib), hoped they were well,
hoped Mrs. Sykes's cough was better (Mrs. Sykes had had a
cough for the last twenty years), hoped the Misses Sykes had
left their sisters at home well; to which inquiry the Misses
Sykes, sitting on three chairs opposite the music-stool, whereon
Caroline had undesignedly come to anchor, after wavering for




too-   S IH I R LIEiY.
some seconds betwee.o. it anld a large arn-chair, into which
she at length recollected she ought to induct Mrs. Sykes: and
indeed that lady saved her the troutle by depositing herself
therein; the Misses Sykes replied to Caroline by one simultaneous bow, very majestic and miglty awful.  A pause fol-.lowed: this bow was of a character to insure silence for the
next five minutes, and it did.  Mrs. Sykes then inquired after
Mr. H1elstone, and whether he had had any return of rhen
matism, and whether preaching twice on a Sunday zfAiglued
him, and if he was capable of taking a full service now; anda
on being assured he was, she and all her daughters, combiningr
in chorus, expressed their.opinion that he was "a wonderfil
man of his years."
Pause second.
Miss Mary, getting up the steam in her turn, asked ewhether
Caroline had attended the Bible Society Meeting which had
been held at Nunnely last Thursday night: the negative answer which truth  compelled Caroline to utter —-for last
Thursday evening she had been sitting at home, reading a
lovel which Robert had lent her —elicited a simultaneous
expression of surprise from the lips of the fbur ladies.
"We were all there," said Miss Mary;  manmma and all
of' us; we even persuaded papa to go: Hannah would insist
upon it, but he fell asleep while Mr. Langweilig, the German
Moravian minister, was speaking; I felt quite ashamed, hIs
nodded so."'
"And there was Dr. Broadbent," cried Hannah; "such a
beautiful speaker! Yo-en couldn't expect it of him, for he is
almost a vulgar-lookingl man."
" But such a dear man," interrupted Marr.
" And such a good man —such a useful man,",added her
imother.
"Only lilke a butcher in appearance," interposed the fair,
proud Harriet.  "I couldn't bear to look at him; I listened
with-1 my eyes shut."
Atiss Helstone felt her ignorance and incompetency; not
havino  seen  Dr. Broadbent, she could not give her opinion.
Pause third came on.  During its continuance, Caroline waa
tl-.inir at her heart's: core what a dreaming fool she wras;
wlhat a  unimpractical life she led; how little fitness there was
in lr for ordinary interccurse with the ordinary wior'd.,Sh




TI1E CUIrATES AT TtA.                  M0t
a -feeling how  exclusively she.had attached herself to tile
white cottage in the Hollow;  how in- the existence of one
inmlate of that cottage she had pent all her universe: she
was sensible that this would not do, and that some day she
would be forced to make an alteration; it could not be said
that she exactly wished to resemble the ladies before her, butt
she wished to become superior to her present self, so as to feel
less scared by their dignity.
The sole means she fbund of reviving the flagging discourse
was by asking them if they would all stay to tea; and a
cruel struggle it cost her to perform this piece of civility
MTrs. Sykes had begun —" We are much obliged to yol:
but —'" when in came Fanny once more.
"The gentlemen will stay the evening, ma'am," was the
message she brought from Mr. Helstone.
" What gentlemen have you!" now inquired Mrs. Sykes.
Their names were specified; she and hel daughters inter.
changeed glances: the curates were not to them what they
were to Caroline.  Mr. Sweeting was quite a favorite with
them; even Mr. Malone rather so, because lie was a clereym-an.  "Really, since you have compalny already, I think
we will stay," remarked lMrs. Sykes.  "'We shall be quite a
pleasant little party: I always like to meet the clergy."
And now Caroline had to usher them  up-stairs, to lelp
them to unshawl, smooth their hair, and make themselves
snmart; to reconduct them to tho drawving-room, to distribute
among them  books of engravings, or odd, things purchased
filom  the Jew-basket: she was obliged -to be a purchaser,
though she was but a slack contributor, and if she had pos.
sessed plenty of imoney, she wrould rather, when it was brought
to the rectory-an awful incubus — have -purchased the
whole stock, than contributed a single pin-cushion.
It ought, perhaps, to be explained in passing, for the benefit
of those, who are not'" an f*ait" to the mysteries of the "J.ewbuasket" and "Missiona-ry-basket," that these "tmeubles" are
willow repositories, of the capacity of a good-sized frmily
clothes-basket, dedicated to the purpose of' conveying fiorn
house to house a monster collection- of pin-ceushions, needle.
books, card-racks, work-bags, articles of infant wear, &e., &e.,
&e., nad.e by the willing or reluctant hands of the Christiaun
la.die s C. a, parish, and sold per force to the heathenish aentle



I02                    S H T IRLEY.
men thereof, at prices unblushingly exorbitant.  The proceeds
of such compulsory sale are applied to the conversion of the
Jews, the seeking up of the ten missing tribes, or to the regeneration of the interesting colored population of the globe
Each lady-contributor takes it in her turn to keep the basket
a month, to sew for it, and to foist off its contents on a shrinking imale public.  An exciting time it is whlen that turn comes
round: some active-minded women, with a good trading spirit,
like it, and efnjoy exceedingly the tin of making  hard-handed
worsted-spinners'cash up, to the tune of four or five hundred
per cent. above cost price, for articles quite useless to them;
other, feebler souls Sbject to it, and would rather see the
prince of darkness himself at their door any morning, than
that phantom-basket, brought with "IMrs. Rouse's compliments, and please rna'am she says it's your turn now."
Miss Helstone's duties of hostess performed, more anxiously
than cheerily, she betook herself to the kitchen, to hold a brief
privy council with Fanny and Eliza about the tea.
" <WVhat a lot on'em!" cried Eliza, who was cook.  "And
I put offthe baking to-day because i thought there would be
bread plenty to fit wnihile morning: we shaL never have enow."
"Are tlere, any tea-cakes?" iasked the young mistress.
"Only three and a loaf.  I wish 1hese fine folk would stay
at ioome till they're asked: and I watnt to iinish trinmmuing my
hat" (bonnet she meant).
"  hen," suggested Caroline, to whom the importance of
the emergency gave a certain energy, "F'anny must run down
to Briarfield and buy some muffins and crumpets, andi some
Iiscuits: antd don't be cross, Eliza, %ve can't help it now."
"A.nd which tea-things are we to have?";' Oh, the best, I suppose: I'll get out the silver service,"
aund she rani up-stairs to the plate-closet, and presently brought
down tea-pot cream-ewer, and sugar-basin.
"And munl we have th' lun?"
"Yes; and now get it ready as quickly as you can, for tlle
sconexr we have tea over, the sooner they will go-at least, I.lhope so. 1Heigho! I wish they were gone," she sighed, as she
rtturned to the drawing-room.  "Still," she thought, tts she
palused, at the door ere opening it, "if' Robert would but come,
ev.n now howvr briglht all would be! How comparatively easy
tQh fl.sk ot.oamusing thes;e Tpeople, if he wecre presenot t Trhere




THEf-   CURATES AT TEA.               10O
would be an interest in hearing him talk (though he rnevct
says much in comupany) and in talking in his presene: there
Ban be no interest in hearing any of them, or in speaking to
them. How they will gabble when the curates come in, and
how weary I shall grow with listening to them! But I suppose I am a selfish fool: these are very respectable gentlefolks;
I ought, no doubt, to be proud of their countenance: I don't
say they are not as good as I am-far from it-but they are
different from me."
She wvent in.
Yorkshire people, in those dayo, took their tea round the.table; sitting well into it, with their knees duly introduced
under the mahogany. It was essential to have a multitude
of plates of bread and butter, varied in sorts and plentiful in
quantity: it was thought proper, too, that on the center-platj
should stand a glass dish of marmalade; among the viand;;
Were expected to be found a small assortment of cheesecakes
and tarts; if there was also a plate of thin slices of pink hana
garnished with green parsley, so much the better.
Eliza, the rector's cook, fortunately knew her business as
provider: she had been put out of humor a little at first, when
the invaders came so unexpectedly in such strength; but it
appeared that she regained her cheerfulness with action, for in
tdue time the tea wtas spread forth in handsome style; andl
neither ham, tarts, nor mnarmalade were wanting anzong its
accompaniments.
The curates, summoned to this bounteous repast, entered
joyous; but at once, on seeing the ladies, of whose presence
they had not been Ifobewarned, they came to a stand in the
door-way.  Malone headed the party; he stopped short and
fell back, almost capsizing Donne, who was behind him.
Donne, staggering three paces in retreat, sent little Sweeting
into the arms of old IHelstone, who brought up the rear
T'here was some expostulation, some tittering: Malone was
desired to mind what he wad about, and urged to push forl
ward; which at last he did, though coloring to the top of his
peaked forehead a bluish purple. IIelstone, advancing, set
the shy curates aside, welcomed all his fair guests, shook hands
and passed a jest with each, and seated himself snugly between
the lovely Harriet and the dashing Hannah; Miss Mary lihe'equested to move to the seat opposite to him, that he might
EL




10l4                   SHIRLEY.~
gee her if he couldn't be near her.  Perfectly easy and gallant
in his way, were his manners always to young ladies;- and
most popular was he among them: -yet, at heart, he neithet
respected nor liked the sex, and such of them as circumstances
had brought into intimate relation with him had ever feared
rather than loved him.
The curates were left to shift for tlhemselves.  -Sweeting,
who was the least embarrassed of the three, took refuge beside
Mrs. Sykes; who, he knew, was almost as bond of him as it
he had been her son.  Donne, after -making his: general bow
with a grace all his own, and saying in a high, pragmaticai
voice, "I-low d' ye do, Miss Ilelstone?" dropped into a seat
at Caroline's elbow: to her unmitigated annoyance, for she
had a peculiar antipathy to Donne, on account of his stultified
and unmovable self-conceit, and  his incurable narrowness of
mind.  M1ialone, grinninDg most unmeaningly, inducted himself
illto the corresponding seat on the other side: she was thus
blessedc in a pair of supporters; neither of whom, she knew,
would be of any mortal use, whether for keeping up the conversation, handing cups, circulating the muffins, or even liftinrl
the plate from the slop-basin.  Little Sweeting, small anldf
boyish as lie was, Would have been worth twenty of them.
MiJalone, though a ceaseless talker when there were oetl)
men present, was usualily tongue-tied in the presence of ladies
three phrases, however, he had ready cut and dried, which hce
never failed to produce:
1stly.-" IIave you had a walk to-day, Mtiss Helstone?"
2dly. —" Iave you seen your cousin, Moore, lately?"
3dly.-" Does your class at the Sunday-school keep uLp itt
inumber?"
These three questions being put aind responded to, between
Caroline and Mfalone reigned silence.
With Donne it was otherwise: h1e was troublesome, exasperating. I-Ie had a stock of sm all-talk on hand, at once the
tmost trite and perverse that can well be imagined: abuse of
the people of Briarfield; of the natives of Yorkshire generally;
complaints of the want of high s:ociety; of the backward state
of civilization in these districts; murmurings against the dis.
respectful conduct of' the lower orders in the north toward
their'betters; silly ridicule of the manner of living in these
pa.rts —the want of style, the absence  of eleganrce-as if' ha,.




THE CURATES AT TEA.                      10O
Donne, had been accustomed to very great doings indeed: a
tnsinuation which his somewhat under-bred mananer and aspect
failed to bear out.  These strictures he seemed to think must
raise him in the estimation of Miss Hleistone, or of any other
lady wlho heard him; whereas, with her, at least, they brought
him to a level below contempt: though sometimes, indeed,
they incensed her; for, a Yorkshire girl herself, she hated to
hlear Yorkshire abused by such a pitiful prater; and when
wrought up to a certain p'itch, she would turn and say something of whichl neither the matter nor the manner recommended her to Mr. Donne's good-will.  She would tell him it
was no proof of refinerment to be ever scolding others for vulgarity: and no sign of a good pastor to be eternally censuring
his flockl.  She would ask him.- what he had entered the
church for, since he complained there were only cottages to
visit, and poor people to preac' to 9 whether he had been ordained to the ministry merely to wear soft clothing, and sit in
king's houses?  These questions were considered by all the
curates as, to the last dearee, audacious and impious.
Tea was a long time in progress: all the guests gabbled. as
their hostess had expected they would.  aMr. lIelstone, being
in excellent spirits-when,  indeed, was he ever otherwise i1
society, attractive female society? it being only with the one
lady of his own family that he mnintained a grim taciturnity
-kept up a brilliant flow of easy prattle with his right-hand
and left-hand neighbors, and even with his vis-a-vis, Miss'Mary: though as Mary was the most sensible, the least coquettish of the three, to her the elderly widower was the least
attentive.  At heart, he could not abide sense in women: he
liked to see them as silly, as light-headed, as vain, as open to
ridicule as possible; because they were then in reality wvhat
he held them to be, and wished them -to be-inferior: toys
to play with, to amuse a vacant hour and to be thrown away.
HTannah was his favorite.  Harriet, though beautiful, ego.
tistical, and self-satisfied, was not quite weak enough for him:
she had some genuine self-respect amidst much false pride, and
if she did not; talkl like an oracle, neither would she. babble
like one crazy: she would not permit herself to be treated
quite as a dolt, a child, a plaything; she expected to he bent
to like a queen.
HaImah, on the contrary, demanded no:reypzet; onl i at




10(                     SUtSHIREL EIY.
toery: if her admirers only told her that she was an anrrel, sh6
would let them t reat her like an idiot.  So very credulous and
frivolous was she; so very silly did she become when besieged'with attention, flattered and admired to the proper derree,
that there were moments when Helstone actually felt tempted
to commit matrimony a second titne, and!o try the experiment
of taking her for his second help-meet: but, fortunately, the
s!alutary recollection of the enznuis of his first marriage, the
impression still left on him of' the weight of the millstone he
had once worn round his neck, the fixity of his felings regpecting the insufl6rable evils of conjugal existence, operated
as a checlC to his tenderness, suppressed the sighl heaving his
old iron lunts, andd restrained himi fioom whispering to I-annah
proposals it would have been high fun and great satisfaction.o her to hlear.
It is probable she would have married him if he had askeud
hler; her parents would have quite approved the match: to
them  his fifty-five years, his bernd-leather heart, could have
prcsented no obstacles; and, as lhe was a rector, held an excellent living, occupied a good house, and was supposed event
to lhave private property (though in that the world was mlistakel;n every penny of the ~5000 inherited by him from his
-Ithelr had been devoted to the buildingf and endowing of'a
~tew church at his native village in Lancashire-for he could
show a lordly munificence when he pleased, and, if the end
vwas to hlis liking, never hesitated about making a grand saerilice to attain it)-her parents, I say, would have delivered
tlannah over to his loving-klindness and his tender mercies
without one snruple; and the second Mlrs. HI-elstone, inversingy
the natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered
through the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, and
crawled the rest of her days a sordid, trampled worm.
Little Mr. Sweeting, seated between MIrs. Sykes and AMiSs
NSary, both of whom were very innd to him, and having x
disit of tarts before him, and marmalade and crumpet upon
his plate, looked and ielt more content than any monarch.
— e -wvas ibnd of all the Mi'.isses Sykes; they were all fond of
himt: Ihe thought them magnificent girls, quite proper to maite
w'tith one of hls inches.  If he had a cause of regret at this
blissflil moment, it wfas thlat Miss Dora happened to be absent;
Dora beimng   tIhe   e wvhom he secretly hoped one (lay to call




TIIE CURATES AT TEA.                   107
Mrs. David Sweeting, with whom lie dreamt of taking stately
wtalks, leading her like an empress through the village of
Nunnely: and an empress she would have been, if size could
make an empress.  She was vast, ponderous: seen from behind, she had the air of a very stout lady of forty; but withal
she possessed a good face, and no unkindly character.
The meal at last drew to a close: it would have been over
long ago, if Mr. Donne had not persisted in sitting with his
cup half full of cold tea before him, long after the rest had
finished, and after he himself had discussed such allowance
of viands as he felt competent to swallow-long, indeed, after
signs of impatience had been manifested all round the board:
till chairs were pushed back; till the talk flagged; till silence
Vel. Vainly did Caroline inquire repeatedly if' he would have
another cup; if he would take a little hot tea, as that must
be cold, &c..: he would neither drink it nor leave it. 1-3e
setemed to think that this isolated position of his gave him
sorlmehow a certain importance: that it was dignified and
stately to be the last; that it was grand to keep all the others
waiting.  So long did he linger, that the very urn died,: it
{'eased to hiss.  At length, however, the old rector himself,
who had hitherto been too pleasantly engaged with Hanlnah
to care for the delay, got impatient.
"For whom are we waiting?" he asked.
" For me, I believe," returned Donne, complacently; appearing to think it much to his credit that a party should
thus be lept dependent on his movements.
"Tut "' cried Helstone; then standing:up, "' Let us return
thanks," said he; which he did forthwith, and all quitted the
table.  Donne, nothing abashed, still sat ten minutes quite
alone, whereupon AMr. Helstone rang the bell for the things
to be removed; the curate at length saw himself forced to
empty his cup, and to relinquish the o leC which, he thought,
had given him such a felicitous distinction, drawn upon him
V.ueh flattering general notice.
And now, in the natural course of events (Caroline, knowing
how it would be, had epened th 3 piano, and produced musicbooks in readiness), music wa.en  asked for.  This was Mr.
Swecting's chiance for showring off: he was eager to commence,
lie undertook, therefbre, the arduous task of persuading the
young ladies to favor the colmpany with an ar —a tang. Cot;




10 3                   SEttI R L EY.
amore, he went through the whole business o; begging, prayIng, resisting excuses, explaining away difficulties, and at last
succeeded in persuading Miss Harriet to allow herself' to be
led to the instrument.  Then out came the pieces of his flutte
(he always carried them in his pocket, as unfailingly as he
carried his handkerchief). They were screwed and arranged;
Malone and Donne meantime herding together, and sneering
at him, which the little man, glancing over his shoulder, saw,
but did not heed at all: he was persuaded their sarcasnm all
arose from envy; they could not accompany the ladies as he
could; he was about to enjoy a triumph over thenm.
The triumplh began.  Malone, much chagrined at hearing
him  pipe up in most superior style, determined to earn distinction, too, if plssible, and all at once assuming the char~tcter of a swain (which character he had endeavored to enact
once or twice before, but in which he had not hitherto moet
with the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved),
approached a sofa on which Miss HIelstone was seated, and
depositing hi sgreat Irish frame near her, tried his hland (or
rather tongue) at a fine speech or two, accompanied by grine
the most extraordinary and incomprehensible.  In the course
of his efibrts to render himself agreeable, he contrived to pos.
sess himself of the two long sof:i cushions and a square one;
with which, after rolling them  about for some time with
strange gestures, he managed to erect a sort of barrier between
himself and the object of his attentions.  Caroline, quite
willing that they should be sundered, soon. devised an excuse
fbr stepping over to the opposite side of the room, and taking
up a position beside Mrs. Sykes; of which good lady she entreated some instruction in a new stitch in ornamental knitting,.
ht favor readily granted, and thus Peter Augustuus was thrown
out.
-Very sullenly did his countenance lower when lhe saw him.self abandoned: left entirely to his own resources, on a large
sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his hands.
T'he fact was, he felt disposed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with MIiss Helstone; because he thought,'in cornumor
with others, that her uncle possessed money, and concluded,
that since he had no children, he would probably leave it to
his niece. Gerard Moore was better instructed on this point:
he had seen the neat church that owed its origin to the rec




TIHE CURATES AT TEA.                   109
tor's zeal and cash, andi mcre than once, ill his irnmost soul,
had cursed an expensive caprice which crossed his wishes.
The evening seemed- long to one person in that room.
Caroline at intervals dropped her knitting on her lap, and
gave herself up to a sort of brain-lethargy-closing her eyes
and depressing her head-caused by what seemed to her the
unmeaning hum round her: the inharmonious, tasteless tattle
of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes: of the
flute, the laughter and mirth:of her uncle and[ Hannah and
Mary, she could not tell whence originatinating, for she heard
nothing comic or gleeful in their discourse; and, more than
all, by the interminable gossip of MSrs. Sykes murmured close
at her ear; gossip which rang the changes on four subjects:
her. own health and that of -the various members of her
family; the Missionary and Jew-baskets and their contents;
the late meeting at Nunnely, and one which aias expected to
come off next week at WVhinbury,
Tired at length to exhaustion, she embraced the opportunity
of Mr. Sweeting coming up to speak to Mrs. Sykes, to slip
quietly out of the apartmerit, and'seek a moment's respite in
solitude.  She repaired to the dining-room, where the clear
but now low remnant of a fire still burnt in the grate.  The
place was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were cleared
friom the table, the chairs were put back in their places, all
was orderly. Caroline sank into her uncle's large easy chair
half shut her eyes, and rested herself-rested at least her
limbs, her senses, her hearing, her vision —weary with listening to nothing, and gazing on vacancy. As to her mind, that
flew directly to the H.ollow: it stood on the threshold of the
arllor there, thenl it passed to the countingl-house, and wontered -which spot was blessed by the presence of' tobert.  It
so happened that neither locality 1had that honor; ibr Robert
was half a mile away from both, and much nearer to Caroline
than her deadened' spirit suspected: he was at this moment
crossing the church-yard, approaching the rectory garden-gate:
not, however, coming to see his cousin, but intent solely on
communicating a brief piece of intelligence to the rector.
Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate: it
rings again for the fifth time this afternoon: you start, and
you are certain now that this must be him of whom you dream
W~hy you are so certain you can net exp!ain to yourseli; but




110                   SI Pt, LLY.
you know it.  You lean ib;ward, listening eagerly as Fanny
opens the door: right: that is the voice-low-with the slight
foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy: you half rise.
"Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company, and
then he will go away."  Oh! she can not let him go: in
spite of herself —in spite of her reason she walks half across
the room; she stands ready to dart out in case the step should
retreat: but he enters the passage.  " Since your master i.
engaged," he says, "just show me into the dining-roomn;
bring me pen and ink: I will write a short note and leave it
fbr him."
Now, having caught these wvords, and hearing him  advance, Caroline, if there was a aoor within the dining-room,
would glide through it and disappear.  She feels caught,
hemmed in; she dreads her unexpected presence may annoy
him. A second since, she would have flown to him; that
second passed, she would flee from him.  She can not; there
is no way of escape: the dining-room has but one door, through
which now enters her cousin.  The look of troubled surprise
she expected to see in his face has appeared there, has shocked
her, and is gone.  She has stammered a sort of apology"I only left the drawing-room  a minute for a little
quiet."
There was something so diffident and downcast in the air
and tone with which slhe said this, any one might perceive
that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession had left
her.  Mr. Moore probably remembered how she had formerly
been accustomed to meet him with gentle ardor and hopeful
confidence; he must have seen how the check of this morning
had operated; here was an opportunity for carrying out his
new system with effect, if he chose to improve it. Perhaps
he found it easier to practice that system in broad daylight,
in his mill-yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a quiet
parlor, disengaged, at- the hour of eventide.  Fanny lit the
candles, which before had stood unlit on the table, brought
writing materials, and left the room.  Caroline was about to
fbllow her.  Moore, to act consistently, should have let her
go; whereas he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his
hand, gently kept her back: he did not aslk her to stay, but!,e would not let her - o.




THE, CURATES, AT WEX.                 111
"Shall It tell my uncle you ale here?";aske4 she, still io
the same subdued voice.'A No: I can say to you all I had. to say to him. You will
be my messenger?"
"Yes, Robert."
"Then you may just inform hln that I have got a clew to
the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames;
that he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and
Pearson's dressing-shop; and that I hope to have him in custody to-morrow. You can remember that I"
"Oh! yes."  These two monosyllables were uttered in a
sadder tone than ever; and as she said them she shook her
head slightly, and sighed.  "Will you prosecute him?"
" Doubtless."
"No, Robert."
" And why no, Caroline?"
"Because it will set all the neighborhood against you nmoll
than ever."
"That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property.  This fellow is a great scoundrel, and
ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief."
"But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do
not know how the people of this country bear malice: it is
the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their
pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it
seven years longer, and hurl it, and hit their mark'at last.'"
Moore lauzghed.
"A most pithy vaunt," said he; " one that redounds vasfly
to the credit of your dear Yorkshire friends. But don't fear
1br me, Lina: I am on my guard against these lamb-like
campatriots of Vours: don't make yourself uneasy about me."'How can I help it?  You are my cousin. If any thing
happened-" she stopped.
"' Nothing will happen, Lina.  To speak in your own language, there is a Providence above all-is there not?'
"Yes, dear Robert. lMay I-He guard you i'
" And if prayers have efficacy, yours will bcn'f..l; me: you
pray for rne sometimes 2"
"Not. sometinzmes, Robert: you, and Louis, and l}krtcnse
are, always remembered."
" So I have often imagined  it  has occurred1 to me,'hlbn,




I12 3                  HIRLEY.
weary anld vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a hleather,
that another had asked forgiveness for my day, an;L safety bfo
imy night. I don't suppose such vicarial piety will avail
much: but the petitions come out of a sincere b:east, fiom
innocent lips; they should be acceptable as Abel's oefelring,
and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them."
"Annihilate that doubt-it is groundless."
"WVhen a man has been brought up only to make money,
and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely breathes
any other air than that of' mills and markets, it seems odd to
utter his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea with aniy thing
divine; and very strange it seems that a good, pure heart
should take him in and harbor him, as if he had any claim
to that sort of nest. If I could guide that benignant heart, I
believe I should counsel it to exclude one who does not profbss to have any higher aim in life than that of patching up
his broken fortune, and wiping clean fiom his -bourgeois
s'cutcheon the foul stain of bankruptcy."
The hint, thouwgh conveyed thus tenderly andc modestly (as
Caroline thought), was felt keenly, and comprehended clearly
" Indeed, I only think-or I will only think-of you as my
cousin," was the quick answer.  "I am beginning to under
stand things better than I did, Robert, when you first came
to England; better than I did, a week-a day ago. I knowN.
it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won't do fbr you
to be romantic; but in ftture you must not misunderstand
me, if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning',
did you not.5"
"Wh hat made you think -so?'
"Your look-your manner."
"-But lol at me now-"
"Oh:! -you are different uow: -at present,  I dare speak to
"Yet I am the same, except that I have left the tradesman
behind me in the Hollow: your kinsman alone stands before
", My cousin Robert —n-ot Mr. Moore."
" lot a bit of Mr. Moore.  Caroline —-Here the company was heard rising in the other room; the
door was opened; the pony-carriage was ordered;  shawls and
oennets Nwere deradeed;   Mr. Helstone called fbor his niece.




NOAtH  AND MOSES.                     ]i3
I'  m must go, Robert.'
"Yes, you mnust go, or they will come in, and find us here;
and I, rather than meet all that host in the passage, will take
mry departure through the window: luckily, it opens like a
door. One minute only-put down the candle an instantgood-nigiht! I kiss you because we are cousins; and, being
cousins, one —two-three kisses are allowable   Caroline,
good-night"
CHAPTER  VIII..NOAHt AND AOoSESs
TiM  next day, Moore had risen before the sun, and had
taken a ride to \Whinbury and back ere his sister had rmade.
the cafd au lait, or cut the tartines fobr his breakfast.  What
business he trantsactedl there, he kept to himself.  Hortense
asked no questions-it was not her wont to comment on his
mnovements, nor his to render. an account of' theim.  The socrets of business-complicated and often dismal mysterieswere buried in his breast, and never canme out of their sepulcher, save now and then to scare Joe Scott, or give a start to
some foreign correspondent: indeed, a general habit of reserve
on whatever was important seemed bred il his mercantile
blood.
Breakfast over, he wenCt to his counting-house.  i-enmy,
oe Scott's boy, brought in tile letters and the daily papers;
Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the doenments, and glanced them over.  They were all short, but not,
it seemed, sweet; probably rather sour, on the contrary, ibr
as,TMoore laid down the last, his nostrils emnitted a derisive
a.nr defiant; sniff; and, though he burst into no soliloquy
there wias a glance il his eye which seemed to invoke the
devil, and lay chiarges on hiL to sweep the whole conee rn to
G-elhemnna. However, lhaving chosen a pen and stripped away
the. feathered top in  brief spasm of finger-fury-only finger
tury, his face was placil —he dashed off a batch' o answers




Ut-;                  SI- RLEY.
sealed them, and went out -and walked through the miill: on
coming back, he sat down to read his newspaper.
The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting; he more
than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed
into the fire; he occasionally turned his head toward the
window; he looked at intervals at his watch: in short, his
mind appeared preoccupied.  Perhaps he was thinking of the
beauty of the weather-for it was a fine and mild morning
ibr the season-and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying
it. The door of his counting-house stood wide open, the
breeze and sunshine entered freely; but the first visitant
brought no spring perlcume on its wings, only an occasional
sulphur-puff from the soot-thick coluramn of snioke rushing
sable from the gaunt mill-chimney.
A dark blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a
dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered
the words "' Iie's comed, sir," and vanished.
Mr. 3Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A largo
mlan, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian
garments and gray-worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, and desired to take a seat; which he did,
raking the remark —a  he removed his hat (a very bad one),
stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with
a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown
-that it was "'Raigrht dahn warm for Febewerry."  Mr.
Moore assented: at least he uttere(d some slilght sound, which,
though inarticulate, miglht pass for an assent. The visitor
now carefully deposited in a corner beside him  an officiallooking staff which he bore in his hand; this done, he whistled,
probably by way of appearing at his ease.
" You have what is necessary, I suppose,"'said M1r. Moore.
"Ay! ay! all's raight."
I-Ie renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading: the
paper apparently had become more ilnteresting. Presently,
however, he turned to his cupboard, which was within reach
of his long arm, opened it without rising, took out a black
bottle-the same he had produced for Malone's benefit-a
tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said to his
glest" Help yourself; t;here's water in that jar in the corner."
"I dunnut knaw that there's mieh need, fbr all a body is




NOAHt AND MOSES.                   115
dry (thirsty) in a morninDg," said the fustian gentieman, rising
and doing as requested.
"'Will vou takl' naught yourseln, Mr. Moore?" le in.
quired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and having
tested it by a deep draught, sank back satisfied and bland in
his seat, Moore-chary of' words-replied by a negative
movement and murmur.
" Yah'd, as good," continued his visitor; it'uld set ye up,
wald a sup o' this stuff. Uncommon good H1ollands! ye get
it fro' furrin' parts, I'se think?"
4 Ay!"
"Talk' my -advice, and try a glass on't; them lads'at'h
coming'11 keep ye talking, nob'dy knows how long: ye'll need
propping."
"IHave you seen, Mr. Sykes this morning?" inquired
Moore.
" I seed him a hauf an hour-nay-happen a quarter of afn
hour sin', just afore I set off: he said he aimed to come here,
and I suda't wonder but ye'll have old HIclstonc too; I seed
em saddling his little nag as I passed at back o' t' Rectory."
The speaker was a true prophet, for the trot of a little
nag's hoofs was, five minutes after, heard in the yard; it
stopped, and a well-know'n nasal voice cried aloud-" Boy
(probably addressing Harry Scott, who usually hung about
the premises from nine A. A. to five P. I.), take my horse and
lead him into the stable."
Ielstone came in, marching nimhbly and erect, looking
browner, keener, and livelier than usual.
" Beautiful morning, lMoore: how do, my boy? IHa! [Whom
have we here  (turning to the personage with the staff)
Sugden!'What! you're going to work directly?. On my
word, you lose no time: but I come to ask explanations: your
message was delivered to me; are you sure you are on the
right scent. How do you mean to set about the business'
ttHave you got a warrant 2"'Sugden has."
-" Then you are going to seek him now? I'll accmpany
you.,
"You will be spared that trouble, sir; he is coming to
seek me. I am just now sitting in state, waiting his arrivaL"
"And who is it 2  One of my parishioners V"




i 6Y                SHIRLEY.
Joe Scott had entered unobserved; he now stood, a imost
sinister phantom, half his person being dyed of the'deepest
tint of indigo, leaning on the desk. His master's answer to
the rector's question was a smile  Joe took the word; putting
on a quiet buutpawky look, he said-    -
"It's a friend of yours, Mr HIelstone; a gentleman you
often speak of."
"Indeed! His name, Joe?-You look well this morning."
"Only the Rev..Moses Barraclough: t' tub orator you call
him sometimes, I think."
"Ah!" said the rector, taking out his snuff-box, and ad.
ministcring to himself a very long pinch —" Ah! couldn't have
supposed it. WVhy, the pious man-never was a workman of
yours, Moore?  lie's a tailor by trade."
"And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for interfering
and setting my discarded men against me."
"And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro'
Mloor?  He went there-wooden leg and all 11"' Ay, sir," said Joe; "h.e went there on horseback, that
his leg mightn't be noticed: he was the captain and wore a
mask; the rest only had their faces blacked."'
"And how was he found out?"
"I''ll tell you, sir," said Joe: "t' maister's not so fond of
talking;. I've no objections. HI-e courted Sarah, Mr. Moore's
sarvant lass, and so it seems she would have nothing to say
to himn; she either didn't like his wooden leg, or she'd sorme
notion about his being a hypocrite.  Happen (for women is
queer hands-we may say that amang werseln when there's
none of'erm nigh) she'd have encouraged him, in spite of his
leg and his deceit —just to pass time like; I've known some
on'emn to do as mich, and some o' t' bonniest and mimest
looking, tooo-ay! I've seen clean, trim young things, that
looked as denty and pure as daisies, and wi' time a body fun''em out to be nowt but stinging, venomed nettles."
"Joe's a sensible fellow," interjected Helstone.
"IHowsiver, Sarah had another string to her -bow: Fred.
Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her, and as women judge
men by their faces-and Fred. has a middling face, while
Moses is none so handsome, as we all knaw-the lass took on
wi' Prod. A two-three months sin', Murgatroyd and Moses
chanced to meet one Sunday night; they'd both come lurking




NOIAi  AND MQOS, S.                 IT7
about these premises wi' the notion of counseling` Sarah  to
tak' a bit of a walk wi' them; they fell out, had a tussel, and
Fred. was worsted: for lhe's young and small, and Barraclough,
fbr all he has only one leg, is almostas strong as Sugden there;
indeed, any body that hears him roaring at a revival or a loveleast, may be sure he's no weakling,"
"Joe, you're insupportable," here broke in Mr. Moore
"You spin out your explanation as Moses spins out his seri
mnons. The long and short of it is, Murgatroyd was jealous
of Barraclough, and last night, as he and a friend took sheltel
in a barn from a shower, they heard and saw Moses conferring
with some associates within, From their discourse, it wvas
plain he had been the leader, not only at Stilbro' Moor, but
in the attaclk on Sykes's property; moreover, they planned a
dleputation to wait on me this morning, which the tailor is to
head, and which, in the most religious and peaceful spirit, is
to entreat me to put the accursed thing out of my tent.  I
rode over to IWVhinbury this morning, got a constable and awarrant, and I am now waiting to give my friend the reception he deserves: here, lmeantime, comes Sykes: Mr. IHel.
stole, you must spirit him up; he feels timid at the thoughts
of prosecuting."
A gig was heartl  to roll into the yard: Mr. Sykes entered,
ai tall, stout man of about fifty, comely of feature, but feeble
of physiognomy: he looked anxious.
"' ave they been? Are they gone?  tHave you got himl
Is it over?" he asked.
"Not yet," returned Moore, with phlegm. "We are wait,
ing for them."
"They'll not come, it's near noon: better give it up, it will
excite bad feeling-lmake a. stir-cause perhaps fatal consequences."'
Yo'  need not appear," said Ioore.  "I shall meet them
in the yard vhen they come; you can stay here."
"But my name must:be seen in the law proceedings: a
wife and family, Mr. Moore-a wife and family make a man
cautious."
Moore looked disgusted.  "Give way, if you please," said
e;,-.." leave me to myself, I have no objection to act alone;
only be assured you will not find safety in submission; your
partner, Pearson, gave way, anld conceded, and forbore-well,




118                   St IRLE Y.
that did not prevent them fronm attempting to i oot him in his
own house."
"My dear sir, take a little wine-and-water," recommended
Mr. ilelstone. The wine-and-water was Hollands-and-water,
as Mr. Sykes discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof: it transfiguLred him ir
two minutes, brought the color back to his face, and made
him at least word-valiant. lIe now announced that he hoped
hie was above being trampled on by the common people; ihe
was determined to endure the insolence of the working-classes
no longer; he had considered of it, and made up his mind to
go all lengths; if money and spirit could put down these
rioters, they should be put down; Mr. Moore might do as hL
liked, but he-Christie Sykes —would spend his last penny in
Iaw before he would be beaten': he'd settle them, or he'd see."
"Take another glass," urged Moore.
Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did; this wvas a cold mnorning
I.Sugden had found it a warnm one); it was necessary to be
careful at this season of the year-it was proper to take something to keep the damp out; he had a little cough already
(here he coughed in attestation of the fact); somiething of this
sort (lifting the black bottle) was excellent taken medicinally
(he poured the physic into his tumbler); he didn't nmake a
practice of drinking spirits in a morning, but occasionally it
really was prudent to take precautions.
"Quite prudent, and take thein by all means," urged the
host.
Mr, Sykes now addressed Mr. IHelstone, who stood on the
hearth, his shovel-hat on. his head, watching him significantly
with his little keen eyes.
"' You, sir, as a clergyman," said he, "' nay feel it disagreeable to be present amid scenes of hurry and flurry, and, I may
say, peril: I dare say your nerves won't stand it; you're a
man of peace, sir, but we manufacturers, living in the world,
and always in turnzoil, get quite belligerent.  Really there's
arn ardor excited by the thoughts of danger, that makes nmy
heart pant.  When Mrs. Sykes is afraid of the house being
attacked and brok3 open-as she is every night-I get quite
excited.  I couldn't describe to you, sir, m y feelings: really,
if any body was to come-thieves or any thing-I believe I
should enjoy it. such is my spirit."




NOAtl AND  MOSEA..U19B
The lardest of laughs, though brief andi lo:, and by no
means insulting, was the response of the rector. Moore would,
I1have pressed uFon the heroic mill-owner a third tumblcr, but
the clergyman, who never transgressed, nor would sufl'er others,
in his presence to transgress the bounds of lecorunt, checked him.
"Enough is as good as a ieast, is it not, 1VIr. Sykles?"' he
said, and Mr. Sykes assented; and then sat and watched Joo
$Scott remove the bottle at a sign firom Ielstone, -with a sel-:
satisfied simper on his lips, and a regretful glisten in his eye.
Moore looked as if he should have liked to fbol him to the top
of his bent.  WThat wtould a certain. young kinswoman of' his
have said, could she have seen her dear, good, great JRoberther Coriolanus-just now?  Would she have acknowleldged
in that mischievous, sardonic visage the same fIace to Nwhichl.he had looked up with such love, which had bent over her
with such gentleness last nigfht.  WTas that the man who hlLa
-pent so quiet an evening With  his sister and his cosin —so
suave to one, so tender to the other —reading Shakspeare and
listening to Cheinier?
Yes, it was the samne man, only seen on. a diffbrent side; a
side Caroline had not yet Ifairly beheld, though perhaps slhe
had enough sagacity fiintly to suspect its existence.  Wel,
Caroline had, doubtless, her defective side too: she was humlan, she must then have been imperfect, and had she. seen
Moore on his very worst side, she would probably have said
fllis-to herself and excused him. Love can excuse any thing except M~ealiness; but Meanness lills Love, cripples even Natural
Alftc'ion: without Estecml, True Love can riot exist. lMoore,;
with all his faults, might be esteemed;. bfor he had no moral
serofulla in his mind, no hopeless, polluting taint, such, fbor
instance, as that of falsehood; neither was he the.slave of his
appetites; the active life to which he had been born and'bred
had given him something else to do than to joiln the futilo
hase of thelC pleasure-hunter: he was a man undeograded, the
disciple of reason, not the votary of sense. The same might
h:be said of old I-Ielstone: lneither of these two would look, think,,r speak a lie; for neither of themr had the wretched black
bottle which had been just put away any charms; both might
boast a valid claim to the proud title of " lord of the creation,"
for no animal vice was lord of thern: they looked and were
~sulperior beinigs to poor Sykes.
F




I*29 aE iSH RLEY.
A-..sort of gathering and- trampling sound was heard in the
yard:,. atl:d then a. pause.  Moore' walked to the window, Ilei;
stoneli ollowed;'both stood on one side, the tall junior behindl
the under-sized senior, looking forth carefully, so that they
miiht not be visible from without, their sole comment on what
they saw was a cynical smile flashed into ceach other's stern eyes.
-A flourishing- oratorical cough was now heard, followed by
the interjection,  Whisht!" designed, as it seemed, to still the
hlinm of several voices.  Moore opened I:is -casement an inch
or two to admit sound more frce ly:' Joseph Scott," begal a snufflilg voice-Scott was standing
sentinel at the counting-house door-" might' we inquire if your
ma-ster be within, and is to be spoken to.!'
"' He's witbinl ay I " said Joe, inonchalantly.;
" Would you, then, if youn please (emphasis'on'you') have
the goodness to tell Jhin:. that: twelve gentlem cr     rants to see
him...... 
ie'd hallppeln.ax -Ihat'sr,".uglgeste  Joe.  "I mught as
weel tell him that at t' same time.":  For a  purpos," w-s tlhe answer.  Joe entered..Please, silr, trce's twelve gentlemen wants to see-ye,' lt
a purpose.""Good, 56c:  I'm  their mian.  Sugden, come when  I
whistle.'"
"[oore went out, chuckling dryly.  He advanced into. the
yard, one hand in his poeket, the other in his waistcoat, his
cap) brim  over his eyes, shading in some measure their deep
dancing ray of scorn.' TwelVe men waited- in the yad s;. omo
in their shirt-sleeves, some in blue aprons: two fiuced'conspicuously in. tle van of the party. One,-a little, dapper, strutting n-an, with a turlned-up nose; the other, a broad-shoudered fellow, distinguished no less by his- demure face and -catlite, trustless' eyes, than' by a wooden leg and stout Crutch;
thlere was a' kind of leer about his lips, he seemed laughing in.
his sleeve at some' personl or thing,-his whole air was any thin'
but that of a true main.
"Good-morning,: Mr-. Barraelogh/' said M:i oo   debonairely, for him..
"Peace be unto you!"' was the amnswer;:'Mr. Barraclough
entirely' closing -his niattirally:half-shiuteyes:as he delivered it.
" I'm  obliged to you:- peace is an excellent thfing; there'a.




NOAHI  AND_ MQ,SES.                   121
notlh,ug I more wish for myself; but that is iDt all you have
to say to mre,, I suppose? I imagine peace-is not your purpose?"'' As to our. purpose,." began. Barraclough,. "it's one that
may sound. strange, and perhaps foolish to ears like yours, for
the childer of this wol  is world is wiser in their generation than the
childer oflight.)"
"To the, point, if you please, and let me hear, what it is."
"' YeT'se hear, sir; if' I can not get it off; there's eleven — be:hit canll help -me.  It is a grand purpose, and. (changing his
voice, from a half-sneer to a whine) it's the Looard's own prpose, and- that's better..":
"Do you want a subscription to a ne-w Ranter's' chapel,
Air. Barraclough-? TUnless your errand be something of that
sort, I can not see what you have to do with it."'' "I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; but as. Providenco
has led, ye to mention the subject,'l11 make it i' my way to
tak' ony trifle ye may have to spare, the nsmallest contributiol!
will be acceptable.
With that he dolfed his hat, and held it out as a beggirngbox;. a brazen grin at the sarnme time cro,;sing his countenance.'If If -gave you sixpence, you.would drink it."
B arraclough uplifted the palms of his hands and the whites
of his eyes, evincing in the gesture a mere burlesque of hypocrisy......:." You seem a fine fellow,"' said Moore, quite coolly ind
drily;'' you don't care for showing me that you are a doubledyed hypocrite, that your trade is fraud: you expect, indeed,
to make me laugh at the cleverness with. wlich you.play. your
coarsely farcical part,; wlhile, at the same time, you.tink you
are deceiving the men behild you.:'
Moses' countenance lowered; he saw he had. gone too far.:
he was going to, answer, when the second leader, impatient of
bcigng hitherto kept in the backgroun, steppe.- forward.  Thi_
man didl not look like a traitor, thougn he hlad an exceedingly
self-confident and conceited. ir..
"3IMr. Moore," commenced he, speaking also.in his throat
And nose, and enunciating each word very slowly, as if with,:a view to giving. his audience time to appreciate fully the tincommon. eegance. of the phraseologr; "it might, perhaps,
justly be said, that, reason rather than peace is our purpose.'We come, in. the first place, Eo request you:te ilea  rIcasol




129,                  SHIRLEY
and should yoi refutse, it is my duty to- warn you, in very aet
tided terms,. that measures will be had resort to (he meant
recourse), which will probably terminate in-in bringing you
to a sense of the unwisdom, of the-the foolishness, which
seems to guide and guard your proceedings as a tradesman in
this-this manufacturing part of the country.  Hem!.
sir, I would beg to allude that as a furriner, coming from a
distant coast, another quarter and hemisphere of this glolbe,
thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these shores-the
ceiffs of Albion —you have not that understanding of huz and
wer ways which might conduce to the benefit of the workingclasses. If, to come at once to partic'lars, you'd consider to
give up this here miln, and go without further protractions
straight home to where you belong, it'ud happen be as
well.  I can see naught agecan such a plan.  What her
ye toi say tull't lads?" turning round to the other members
of the deputation, who responded'unanimously, " Hear
hea r!"
"Brayvo, Noah o' Trimrs s" murmured Joe Scott, who stood
behind Mr. Moore. " 3Ioses'll niver beat that-Cliffs o' Albion, and t' other hemisphere.! my certy! Did ye come fro'
t;h' Antaectic Zone, maister?  Mloses is dished."
-- Moses, however, refused to be dished; he thougtlt he would
try again.  Casting a somewhat ireful glance at "Noah o':rim's,"  he launched out in his turn: and now he spoke in a;erious tone, relinquishing the sarcasm which he found had.not answered.
"Or iver you set up the pole o' your tent amanl us, Mr.':.loore, we lived i' peace and quietness; yea, I may say, ill al.oving-kindness.  I am not myself an aged person as yet, bua
f can remember as far back as maybe some twenty year, when
hand-labor were encouraged and respected, and no mischiefmaker hadt venturec to introduce these here machines, which
is so pernicious.' Now, I'm not a cloth-dresser myself; but by
trade a tailor; howsiver, my heart is of a softish natur': I'm:a very feeling man, and when I see my brethren oppressed,'like my great namesake of old, I stand up for'em; for which
intent, I this day speak with you face to face, and advise~
you to part wi' your infernal machinery, and talk' on more
hands."
What if I don't follow your advice, Mr. Barraclough?"




NOAH AND MOSES.                     i23
"The Looald pardon you. The Looard soften your heart,
Sir!!
"Are you in connection with the Wesleyans now, Mr. Bar.
raclough?"
"Praise God! Bless Eiis:Name! I'm a joined Methodly!"
" Which in no respect prevents you from being at the same
lime a drunkardl and a swindler.  I saw you one night a
week ago laid dead-drunk by the roadside, as I returned from
Stilbro' market; and while you preach peace, you make it
the business of' your lifb to stir tup dissension.  You no more
synmpathize with the poor who are in distress, than you sympathize with me: you incite them to outrage for bad purposes
of your own  so does the individual called Noah o' Tim's.
You two are restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels, whose
tchief motive-principle is a selfish ambition, as dangerous as it
is puerile.  The persons behind you are some of them honesl
though misguided men; but you two 1 count altogether bad.'
Barraclo uh was going to speak.
"Silence!  You have had your say, and now I will havo
mine.  As to teing dictated to by you, or any Jack, Jemn, or.Jonathan on earth, I shall not sufltr it for a moment.  You
desire me to quit the country; you request nme to part with
mny machinery; in case I refuse, you threaten me. I do refuso
— point-blank! IIere I stay; and by this mill I stand; and
into it will I convey the best machinery inventors can furfillh.
What will you do?  The utmost you canz do-and this you
will never dare to do-is to burn down my mill, destroy its
contents, andishoot me. WVhat then? Suppose that building
was a ruin and I was a corpse, what then?-you lads behind
these two scamps, would that stop in vention or exhaust science?
NIot for the -fraction of a second of time! Another andl- better
gig-mill would rise on the ruins of this, and perhaps. a more
enterprising owner come in my place. H-Iear me!-I'll make
my cloth as I please, and according to the best lights I have.:1 z its manufacture I will employ what means I choose. Whoever, after hearing this, shall dare to interfere with me, may
just take the consequences. An example shall prove I'm in
earnest."
He whistled shrill and loud. Sulgden, his staf-and warrant,
came on to the scene.
Moore turned sharply lo Barrazdough:' You were at sStil4




'124                   S-H't  RL R Y..
bro', said he;:'-I have pro0fo.of.that.: -You were on the- nmoo:
-y ou wore a mask-you knocked down one of nmy men with
yolur own hand- you!  a ieacher of the G ospel G   Sutgden,
arrest him!"
Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to rescue,
but. the right hand which all this while had lain hidden in
M.oore's breast, reappearing, held out a pistol.
" Both barrels are loaded," said he:. "I'm quite determined!
-.-eep: off!
-Stepping backlward, facing the foe as he vweint, he guarded
his prey to the counting-house. Ie ordered Joe Scott to pass
ia. with Sugdern and the priisoner and to'bolt the door'inside.
For himself, he walked backward and forward alone the front
of the- mill, looking meditatively on the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but still holding tle pistol.  The
eleven remaining deputies watched him  some time, tallking
under their breath to each other: at length one'of them  approached.  This man looked very diflbrent from either of the
two- who had previously spolel:- he was hard-favored,- but
modest, and manly-looking.
I've i not: much faith i' Ml'oses Barraclough,"  said he;
and I wouldl speakl  a word'to you mysein, Mr. Moore.
It's out o' no ill-will that I'm  here, Ibr my part; it's just to
mrak' a elffort to get things straightened, ibr they're sorely a
crocied.  Ye:see.we re ill off. —varry ill' off': wer families is
poor and pined.  We're thrown' out o' worki wvi' these frames:
we'can get 1naught to do- we can earn naught.  What is. to
be done?  Mun- we: say, wisht! and lig aus down and dee?
Nay; I've no grand words-at my tongue's end, Mr. Ioore,
but 1 feel that it wadc be. a low principle for a reasonable m-an
to starve to death: like a dumb (ratur'.: —-I will l't do't. TI'1m
not for shedding bloodl: I'd neither kill a man nor hurt a man.;
and I'm' not for pulling- dowin mills and breaking machines:'
obr, as ye say, that way o' going- on'11 niveri stop:inentionl ~
but I'll talk-I'll mak' as big a din as ever -I can. Invention
may be all right,  but I know it isn't  right for poor folkls lo.starve. Them that governs mun find a w.a7y to help u-s: tllhey
munn mak' fresh orderations.  Ye~11 say that's hard to doso mich louder nmun we shout out then, for so mueh.Slacker
will t' Parliament-men be to set on to a tough job.:?.   -. -
"W rorry the Parliament-men as much as you pleaIe.'said




NOAH AND- lMOSES.                      i25
Moore;'  - -but to worry thei mill-ownters is absurd; and I, f:o
one, won't stand it..'!
"Ye're a raight hard'un1!" returned the workmanlL. "\WVii
r't ye gie us a bit o' time?  Will l't ye consent to nak' your
changes, rather more slolwly''  
"Am I the whole body of clothiersin Yorkshire? Aniswer
rme that "'".-Ye're yourseln."
" And only nmyself; and ii I stopped by the way an instant,
Awhile others are rushing  on, I should be trodden down.  If 1
lid as you- wish me to do, I should be bankrupt iln a monthl;red would my:bankruptcy put bread into'your hungry c hildren's mouths?  William' Farren, neither to your dictation,
nor to that of any other, will JI submit.  Talk.to me no mroreo
about maehinery; I wrill.havo  my own way. I shall get new:
frames in to-morrow: -if youa broke these I.woutld still' get
more....'l Zevzer give r,.    -. 
Here the  mil l-bell ran texelxre o'clock: ithas: the Adinn.erhour. 3Moore abruptly turned frniom   the deputation, -and reentered his Ceouitngihou-se..
His last words had left a bad, harsh  impression: he, at
least, had "hfailed.t  in thle disposing rof  chance he. was lord of."
By speakiig- lkindly to'William  Farrei. — who was a very
honest man, without Cnvy or hatred of those more happily'
circumstanced than himself; thinking it no hardship and no
injustice to be forced to live by. labor; disposed to be honorably conteout if he could but get work to do —Moore might have
imadee a friend. It seemled wondeiful how.he could turn fiom
such a nman ~without a coneiliatory or -a sympathizing expression.  The poor fbllow's fice looked haggard with L.want: he
had the aspect of a mant who bad not knlown what it was to
live ina comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months  past;
and yet there was no Ifrocity, 1no maligity inL hiS colntenanl e t
it _was worn, dejected, austere, but, still patient. thowr could
TM oore leave himthus,  with-tile words,."' Tll rnever g-.e in,"
and not a whisper of good-will, or hope, or aid?
Farren, as he -went home to his cottage —once, in better.times, a decent,. clean, pleasant place;. but now', though still
cleanj very dreary, because so poor —asked himself this ques.,tion. lie concluded. that the foreigr  mill-ow uer was a seltish,
an lunfeeling, annd, he thought: too, a fbolish man.  t appeared




;: i-.t rRL E ~.to;hiu  that emniration, had he only the means to emigrate
would be precirable to service under such a master.  Hie fell
much cast -downl- -almost hopeless.
Onl his entrance, his wifb served out, in orderly sort, such
dinner as she had to give him  alnd the bairns: it was only
porrigdce, anld too little' of thlat. Some of the younger children
asked foir more, when they had done their portion-an application which disturbed William much: while his wife quieted
thenl as well as sihe could; he left his seat, and went to the
door.  Ile whistled -a cheery stave, which did not however,
prevent a, broad drop or two (much more like the "first of a
thunder-shower" than those which oozed from the wound of
the gladiator) from;gathering on the lids of his gray eyes, and
plashing thence to the threshold. HIe cleared his vision with his
sleeve, andc the melting mood over, a very stern one followed.
HIe still stood broodikig inr silence, when a gentleman ji
black came up-a clergyman, it rmight be seen at once; but
neither Helstonie,i nor M;ailoone, nor Donne, nor Sweeting. Ile
might be forty years old; lhe was plain-looking, dark-complexioncd, and already rather gray-hauied. lie stooped a little
in walking.  His colintenance, as le came o1n, wore an abstracted alnd somewhat doleful air; but, in approaching Farten, he looked up, and then a lieariy expression illuminated
the preoccupied, serious:face.
Is it you, WVilliam? i,.:ow are you T'? he asked.
"MiddlinIg,'T. aMr l   how are        Will ye stelt ia alnd'est ye?"'
Mlr. I-TIi whose name. the reader has seln mentioned befire (and who, indeed, wvas vicar of Nunnely, of which parish
Farren was a native, and from whence he had removed but
three years ago to resi(de in Briarfield, for the convenience of
being near I-Iollow s-m-il` where he had obtained work) entered
the cottage, an, having greeted the goodwife and tne children,
at down.  He proceeded:to talk very cheerfully about the
length o:' time that -lad elapsed since the family quitted his
parish, the changes'which h ad occurred since; he answered
questions touching his; siste'r Mal'rgaret, who was inquired aftel'
with much inaterest; lie asked questions in his turn, and at
last, glancing hastily aid anxiously round through his spectacles (he wtor spectacles, for he:was short-sighted) at the bare
reOOn, aiid at the-meugInsrand wan flaccs of' the circle about




NOAH AND MOSI S.'127
hinm-br tile child ren had come rouInd his knee, and tile latihe
and mother stood before him-he said, abruptly" And how are you all?  How do you get on?'"
Mr. Hall, be it remarked, thoughi an accomplished scholar,
not only spoke with a strong northern accent, but, on occasion,
used freely nlorth-country expressions.
"We get on poorly," said WVilliam: "we're all out of'
work.  I've selled most o' t' household stufF, as ye may see
and what we're to do next, God knows."
" EHas Mr. Moore turned you off'I?"
"Ile has -turned us off; and I've sich an opinion of him
how, that I think, if he'd tak' me on again to-morrow, I
wouldn't woirk for him."
"It is not like you to say so, WVilliam."
"I know it isn't; but I'm getting different to mysel'; I
feel I am changing.  I wad n't heed, if t' bairns and t' wife
had enough to live on; but they're pinched-they're pined-"
" Well, my lad, and so are you; I see you are.  These are
grievous times; I see suffering wherever I turn.  vVilliam,
sit down; Grace, sit down; let ius talk it over."
And in order the better to talk it over, AMr. Hall lifted the
least of the children on to his knee, and placed his hand on the
head of the next least; but when the small things began to.chatter to him, he bid them "iWhisht'!" and, fixing his eyes
on the grate, he regarded the handful of embers which burnt
there, very gravely.
"Sad times!" he said,'t and they last long. It is the Wvill
f' God: His will be done! but He tries us to the utmost."
Again he reflected.
" You've o money, William, and you've nothingyou could
sell to raise a small sum?"
".No; I've selled t' chest o' drawers, and t' clock, and t' bit
of a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny tea-tray and set o'
efheeney'at she brought for a portion when we were wed."
"And if somebody lent you a pound or two, could you malke
any good use of it?  Could you get into a new way of doing
something S'"
Farren did not answer; but his wife said quickly, "Ay,
I'm  sure he could, sir; he's a very contriving chap, is our
William.  Iff i.'d two or three pounds, he could begin selling
stuff:"
F*




129                   S 1SH.t R L E -Y
" Could you, WiIlitm?""Please God," returned William, deliberatelyf, "I could
bo-y groceries, and. bits o' tapes, and. thread, an-. what I
thought wonld sell, and I could begin hawkinfg at first.i'
"And you know, sir," interposed Grace, " you're sure William would neither drink, nor idle, nor waste in any wray.
iHe's: my husbanld, and I shouldn't praise him, but I will say,
there's nnt a soberer, honester man i' England nor he is."~
" Vell, I'll speak to one or two friends, and I think I,an
promnise to let him have ~5 in a day or two:as a loan,- ye
mind,. not a gift: he must pay it back."
"I'  understand, sir: I'm quite agreeable to that."
M' eantime, there's a few shillings' for you, Grace, just to
keep the pot boiling till custom cormes.  Now, bairns, stand
uip in a row and say your catechism, while youer mother goes
LanLd buys some dinner; for you'.ve not had much to-day, I'll
be bound.  You-begin, Ben.  What is your name''
Mr. Hall staid till Grace came back; then he hastily toolk
his leave, shaking hands with both Farren and his wife: just:
at the door, he said to them a few brief but very carnest words
of' religious consolation and exhortation: with a mutual " God
ilcss you, sir ["  "God bless you, my friends!" they separatedi.
CHAPTER IX.
BnIAnARMAINS.
MIESSnS. I-IELSTONtE and SYKEs began to be extremely jocose
1id  congratulatory with Mr. ~Moore when he returned to themn
ifter dismissing the deputation; he was so quiet, however,
trader their compliments upon his firmness, &e., and wore a
eountenance so like a still, darli day, equally beanless and
breezeless, that the rector, aft-er glancingr shrewdly into his
eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his coat, and said to
Sykes, whose senses were not acute enough to enable him to
discover unassisted where his presence and conversation were
a nuisance"Come, sir; your road and mine lie partly together. ha;tl




B RIA RMAINS,.29
we not better bear each other-co7mpany?  Wel V'1clbid:  Moore
good-mnorning, and lieave- himn to- the happy. fanacies lhe-. seems
disposed to indulge.'  - 
". ".Ad TVhere is. Slugndenl..'. demanded MIoore, looking up." Ah, ha!"' cried I-elstone.  "I.'ve nlt:. been quite idlo
while you were busy.  I've been helping you a litle: I flztter
myseli; not injudiciously.: th-oight it better:not to lose tineso'- while:you were. parleyin g with that down-! ookin, Qentleman, Farren, I tliinlk his name-is, II opened.-this back window,
sh.outed: to-.turgatroyd, -who -was.in:he stable, to: brin(r Mr.
Sylkes's gio; round; ihelI I simuggled Sugden and:brother,
Maoses-wooden leg and all-Lthrough the apertures a.id. saw
thern mount the gig (always with cur..:good fiiend:.Sykoes's
permission, of course).  Suoden toolk the reins —he dlives like
J.ehu, and in another quarter of an hour, Barraclough will be
safe in Stilbro' jail'.- - i' "Very good.: thank you," saidMYoore, " and g.ood.-rroing
tentlemen," he added, ald so politely conducted _them to ti.mC
door, anld saw thern clear of.his premises.    -
L ie was a taciturn, serious man e e. rest of the day:.le di
iot even bandy a repartee with Joe: Scott;; who, f-ir- is part,
said to hlismaster only just what. was absolutel/y necessary to
the progress of business, but looked at him a good deal.out of
the corners of his- eyes, frequently came. to' poke the countinghouse fire for him, and once,i as he was locking up for the sday
the' mill was thenrworking short-time,: owing, to thl slackness
of' trade), observed that it was a grand evening, adie ihe "could
wish Mrr. Moore -to- talc:  bit of a:walk up th' iHollow; it'vould do him good."  
At-this recommendation, Mr.- Moole burst into aR short
laugh, and after demalnding of Joe what all this solicitude
meant-,- and whether he tooklhim- for a wonlanL or a chil,,
seized  the keys from his hand, anid shovedl him. by the shoulr
ders out of his presence.-" He called him back, however, ore lie
hlad reached the y ard-gate..
"Joe, do you lknow those Farrens. They are not well ol;
Esuppose?.  --
"They can rot be-well oil' sir, when they"ve not, had womk
as a' three monlth.. -Ye'd see yoursel''at William's sorely
eihanged —iiir pared': they've selled most'o' t' stuft out o' th'
house."




1- 1 SHI-RLEY.
" oe Was not a bad workmaln?
"'Ye never had a better, sir, sin' ye began trade."
" And decent people-the whole family?"'NTiver dacenter: th' wife's a raight cant body, and as
clean    -! ye mught eat your porridge ofil' th' house floor;
they're sorely comed down.  I wish HWilliarn could get a job
as gardener or summat i' that way; he understands gardening
wea4l. I-Ie once lived wi' a Scotchman thaL; tached him the
nysteries o' that craft, as they say.";CNow, then, you can go, Joe; you need not stand there
stalring at me."
"Ye've no orders to give, sir?"
"None, but for you to take yourself oil"
WVhich Joe did accordingly.
Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this
Ilad been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meridian
sunlshineo the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and ere
dusk, a hoar frost was insidiously stealing over growing grass
and unfolding bud.  It whitened the pavement in fiont of
Briarnains (MAr. Yorke's residence), and made silent havoc
ilmong the terider plantS in his garden, and on the mossy level
of his lawn.  As to that great tree, strong-trunked, and
broad-armed, which guarded the gable nearest the road, i;
seemed to defer a spring-night frost to harm  its still bare
boughs; and so did the leafless grove of walnut trees, rising
tall behind the house.
i  the dusk of the imoonless if starry night, lights froii
windows shone vividly; this -was no dark or lonely scene, nor
even a silent oneL lBriarmains stood near the highway; it
was rather an- old place, and had been built ere that highway
was cut, and when a lane windling up through fields was the
only path conducting, to it.  Briarfield lay scarce a mile oil';
its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen.  Briar-chapel, a
large, new, raw, W7esleyan place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant; and, as there was even now  a prayermreeting being held within its walls, the illumination of: its
win4ows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn,
of a most extraordinary description, such as a very Quakermight tie[ himself moved by the spirit to dance to, roused
chterily all tie echoes of' the vicinage.'jThe words were dis



BIR!AR MAIN.                       131
t.ictly audible by snatches: here is a quotation or two from!lilIt'rent strains; for the singers passed jauntingly from hymn
to hymn, and from tune to tune, witi an ease antd buoyaney
all their own.," Oh! who can explain
This struggle for life,
This travail and pain,
This trembling and strife?
Plague, earthquake, -and famine,
And tumult and war,
The Nwonderful coming
Of Jesus declare!
" For every fight
Is dreadlful and loudThe warrior's delight
Is slaughter and blood;
H1is foes overturning,
Till all shall expire —
And this is with burning,
And fuel, and fire!"
liere fillowed all interval of clamorous prayer, accompanied
b)y f!arful. groans.  A shout of" I've found liberty!"  "4 Doad
o' Bill's has fun' -liberty!" rung from tlle chapel, and out. all
the assemnbly broke again.
CL What a mercy is this!
What a heaven of bliss!
H-Iow unspeakably happy am I!
Gathered into the fold,
With thy people enroll'd,
With thy people to live and to die 
Oh! the goodness of God
In employing a clod
His tribute of glory to raise;
Hiis standard to bear,
And with triumph deelare
His unspeakable riches of grace!' Oh, the fathomless love,
That has deigned to approve
And prosper the work of my hanids:'With my pastoral crook,
I went over the brook,
And behold I am spread into hands tI




" Who, -I ask in amazec
ilath begotten me. these?
And inquire from what.quarter they  e came
m- — {y-full heart it replies,
They are born from the skies,
And gives glory to God and the Lamb!"
The stanza which followed this,  after another and lozugai
interregnum  of shouts, yells; ejaculations, frantic cries, agoni
ized groans, seemed to c,p the climax of noise and zeal.
"Sleeping on the brink of sin,.
Tophet gaped to take ius in;
SMercy to our rescue flewBroke the snare, andtibrought us through.'"Here, as in a lion' s. den,
Undevoured we still remain;
Pass secure the watery flood,
HIanging on the arm of God.
Here' 
(Terrible, most distracting.to thle earwAvas the strained shout
in whlich the last stanza was given.)
Her Iee we raise our Vioics~ highier,
Shout in the refiner's fire;
Clap our hands amidst the flame,
Glory give to Jesus' name!:  -
The roof of tle. chapel did not fly off; which speaks volumes in praise of its solid slating.
But if' Briar-chapeI seemed alive, so alsoqdid Briarmains
though certainily the mansion appeared' to enjoy a quieter
phase of existence than the temple e; some -of its windows too
were a-glow: the lower ecasements opened upon the lawn.,
curtains concealed the interior, and partly obscured the ra>
of the candlcs which lit it,'but they did not entirely muffle
the sound of voice aid laughter.  We are privileged to enter
that fiont-door, and to penetrate to the domestic sanctum.
It is not the presence of company which- makes Mr. Yorke'
habitation lively, "for there is none within it save his own
family, and they are.; ssembledl in that- farthest room to the'
right, the back-parlor.
This is the usual.sittingroom  of an everntg, Those win




B R I A RM- ] N S.3
dows would hbe seen- by daylight t- obe.- o bfilliaitlystainc;d
glass —purple: andi.. amber the.pedominait hrtes, glittering
round a gravely-tinted medallion in the center- of each, representing the suave head of William Shakspeare, and, the serene
one of John- Milton.;  Some Canadian a.viows -hang on the
walls -green forest and blue water-scenery'-and in. the midst
of them blazes a night-eruption of Vesuvi us; very ardently it
glows, contrastedl with the' cool fbamn  anzd azre,of cataracts,
and the dusky depths of woods.  - 
The fire illuminating this room,-reader, is such as, if you
be a southern, you do not often. see- burning on the hearth of
a private apartment; it is a clear, hot, coal fire, heaped high
tin the ample chimney.- Mri. Yiorke will" have such fires even
in warm summer weather': he:- sits -beside it with -a book ini
his hand,' a little: round stand at -his -elbow supporting a candle
-but -he is not reading, he. is'watching his -children.   Opposite to him sits his lady —a personage whom- I might describe
minutelyr,: but I fee-I no vocation to- the- task.  IT see her,
though, Very plainly before me. -a large woman of the gravest
aspecl, caxe on her front and1. on'her shoulcers —but not overwehnelin, inevitable care-rather the sort'of. voluntary,
cxemplary.cloud- and burden people ever carry -lwho- deem it
-their duty to -be gloomy.  Ah,. well a-day!  rs;'Yorke -had
that notion,  aind' grave as Saturn she was' morning, -noon, and
night,.and- hazd things she- thought of any unhappy wighte.specially of the felmale; sex'-who dared, in iher presence, to.show- the light.of a gay heart-on a sunny countenance. hIn
her estimation, to- be. mirthful was to; be- profane; to"-oI a
eheerfatl'was to be: frivolous: she —drew'no disinctions.: Yet
shde was a v-ery good wife, a very caretfil mother, looked aftet
her children unceasingly, was -sincerely- attached to her hbus
band-; -only, -the worst. of it was, -if she could have: had -het
will, she would - not have permitted him to have- any friend in
the world beside herself; all his -relations were insupportable
to her, and she kept them at'arm's length. --
Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly. well;. yet he' was hiaturally a social, hospitable man-aln advocate for family unity
— and in his youth, as has been-said. he liked none but liveSy,
oheerful women. - Why he chose her-how they contrived to
m;uit each other, is a problem puzzling en.ough, but which might
soon- b solve& if one had time.- to go intotethe analysis of thll




l'- StSHIRLEY.
ease.  Suffiec  it here to say. that Yorke had a shadowy ai
well as a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy
side found sympathy and affinity in the whole of his wife',
uniformly overcast- nature,  For the rest, slhe was a strongminded woman; never said a weak or a trite thing; took
stern, democratic views of society, and rather cynical ones of
human nature; considered herself perfect and safe, and the
rest of the world all wrong.  Her main fault was a brood,
ing, eternal, immitigable suspicion of all men, things, creeds
and parties; this suspicion was a mist before her eyes,'a
false guide in her path, -wherever she looked, wiherever she
turned.
it may be supposed that the children of such a pair'were
not likely to tturn out quite ordinary, common-place beings;
and they were not. - You see six of them, reader; the youngest is a baby on the mother's knee; it is all her own yetand that one she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect, condemn;
it derives its sustenance from her, it hangs on her, it clings to
her, it loves her above every thing else in the world: she is sure
of that, because, as it lives by her, it can not be otherwise.
therefore she loves it.
The two next are girls, RPose and Jessy, they are both
now at their father's knee' they seldom go near their mother,
except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years
old; she is like -her father —the most like him of the whole
group-but it is a granite head copied in ivory; all is softened
in color and line. Yorke himself has a harsh face; his daugrhter's is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple, childlike in feature; the tound cheeks bloom: as to the gray eyes,
they are otherwise than childlike —a serious soul lights them,
a yobug soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and
neither' father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it.
Partaking, of. the essence of each, it will one day be better
-thain either-stronger, much purer, more aspiring, Rose is a
stil,.sometimes a stubborn girl now: her mother wants to
make of her such' a wvoman as she is herself —a woman of dark
and dreary duties-and Rose has a mind full-set, thick sown
with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony
to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed.
She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel
mle day, and t'hen:_it wvill be once for ali.  Rose loves hey




IB RAI    AINSA.!
father * her fatlle does not rule her with a rod of iron, he is
good to her.  HIe sometimes fears she will not live, so'bright
are the sprkls of intelligence which, at moments, flash fromn
her glance, and gleam  in her language. This idea makes him
often sadly tender to her.
1-Jo has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so
gay and chattering, arch-original even now; passionate when
provoked, but most afflctionate if caressed; by turns gentle
and rattling; exacting, yet generous; fearless-of her mother
ibr instance, whose irrationally harcl  and strict rule she has
often defied-yet reliant on any who will help her.  J'essy,
Fwith her. little piquant face, engaging prattle, and winning
ways, is made to be a pet; and her father's pet she accordingly is.  It is odd that the doll should resemble her mother,
feature by feature, as Rose resembles her father, wld yet the
physignomy-how different!
Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were -now held before you,
and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they
will be twenty years from this night, -what would you think?
The magic mnirror is here: you shall learn their destinies —
atnd first that of your little life, Jessy.
Do you know this place?  ATo, you never saw it, but you
recognize the nature of these trees, this foliage-the cypress,
the willow, the yew.  Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dim  garlands of everlasting
flowers.  lHere is the place: green sod and a gray marble
headstone-Jessy sl]:eps below.  She lived through an April
day; much loved was she, much loving.  She often, in her
brief life, shed tears, she had fiequent sorrows; she smiled
between, gladdening whatever saw her. HIer death was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for RLose had been
her stay and defense through many trials: the dying and the
watching English girls were at that hour alone in a foreign
country, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a grave.
Now, behold Pose, two. years later. The crosses and garlands looked strange, but the hills and woods of this landscape
took still stranger. This, indeed, is far from England: remote
must be the shores which wear that wild, luxuriant aspect.
This is some virgin solitude: unknown birds flutter round the
skirts of that forest: no European river this, on whose banks
tRose sits thinking. The little, rjniet Yorkshire girl is a lonely




Z;....S H  IR L E Y.
e'mi rant in mine region of t1he sou'thltn Ihenisp'ltar':Wit?
Blheever. come. back?'  
The threeeldest of the famnily are all boys: Matilhew,:Mark,
and Martin  They are seated together  i:that -corner, engfaged
in some game.  Observe their three heads:.macuch  alike at a
first glancne; -at a second,' difikrent'" at a.third, cointraSted.
Dark-haired,- darkl-eyed, red-cheeked, are bthewhole trio;- small:
English:-features they all-possess; all. own a blended resemblance to sire-and mlother, andl yet a distinctive' physiognomy
nmaxk of a separate character, belongs to eaclh.     - 
i shall not. say muIch.about'.' Matthew, the fiwAt-borrn ofL: tLh
house; though it is impossible to avoid gazing at him  long"
and coujecturing What. qualities that visage hides or indieates;
fie' is no plain-looking boy- that jet-blt ck. hair, white. brow,
high, colored cheek, those: quick, dark eyes, are good:points iti
their way.   HoN is it that, look. as long. as. yoxun- w.ill, there is
but' oe' object ina the roomn, and.: that' the. most -sinister,. to
which  I MatthewvI'.s face seetis to. bear an affinity:and of whih,
ever aid anoin, it reminlds you:strangely-tthe eruptioa  of
Vesuvius.  Flame and shadow scernt the componlent.pa'rts of
that lad's soul: no daylight in it, and n:o sunline,  anld, no
pure,; cool moonboeaml ever shone'there. -J:e has ana Ernglishl
fa.me,.but, -apparently, not anl Englisih nitld: you would say;
an Italian stiletto in a sheath- of British workmanslhip.  HIe
is crosseed illthle ame-look at; hIis scowl. Mlr. Yoirke sees it;,;anI  what does he say? ~ It a low voice, he' pleads: M"1'Mark
and:11Martit, don't ancer your brother.'.  And this is ever the
tone-adopted by both-parents.   Theoretically, they decry partiality; no rights: of prirnogeniture are to -be allowed in that
housc; but Matthew is neler cto be vexed, never to be oppo.sed:
they avert provocation fromn  him  as assiduously:as they would
avert fireo from' a barrel of gunpowider. " Concede, conciliate,"
is thleir l-notto wierever lie is. colncerned-. -'The republic'ans
tre fast mnaking a tyrantlof their own flesh and blood.:This
the younger scions know a. I feel, and att heart they all rebel
against the inj ustice: they can -not read their parents'- motives;
they only see the'difirence of'treatment.  The dragon's-teeth
are al-ready sown among Mr. Yorke's youlng cive branches;
discord will one day be the harvest...  ark is a bonnie looking boy, the most -regular-featured of,
the fa-ily;. he is exceedingly canlm; his smile is shrewd.t,-;. t6i




BRIARMAINS.                         137
eain say the driest, most:cutting things in the quietest of tones.
Despite his tranquillity, a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper,
and reminds you that the smoothest' waters are not alwavy s S
the:safest.  Besides,' he is-too still' unmoved, lphlegmatic., to
be  appy.. Life will never have much joy in it fbr Mark1
oby the-time lie is five-and-twenty, he will wonder why people
ever' laugh, and think all fools who seemH merry. Poetry wvil
not: exist for Mark,  either in literature or illlife; its best
c-flhsions will sound to him mere ranit and jargoa: enthusiasmr
will be his aversion and conitempt. M ark will have no youth
whiiiee    loolks juvenile and blooming, he will be already midc-'die-aged in mind... IEs body is now  ourteeln years of ago,,  but
fins soul is alreadyathirty.'.: Martin, the youngest of the three,-owns a-lnother nature.
Life may,. or may' not, be brief for him; but it will certailljy
be brilliant: he will pass through all its illusions, half belitev
in thecim, wholly enjoy therm, then outlive them. That boy is
not -handsomie —not so handsome as either of his brothers:~ h-e t
is plain; there is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and he-'ill
wCear it till he is near twenty; then he will put it oef": abouthiat period, le will make thimself handsome.  [-Ie will weat
uncouth manners till -that -ae, perhaps homely garments; but'
the. chrysalis will retain the power of transfiguring itself into
ithe butterfly, and such transfiguration will, in: due season,
take place.  For a' space, he will be vain, probably a downi
right puppy, eager for pleasure,'and desirous of admiration-;'athirst; too, for knowledge. - He will want all that the world
cain give him, both of enjoyment andi lore; he will, perhalps,
take deep draughts at ea'/h fount. rThat thirst satisfiedblati next?.I knowno ot. -Marltia mnight be a remarkabol
manl: whether he will or not, the seer is powerless _to predict:
on that subject, there: has been no open vision.
Take Mr. Yorke's family in the aggregate, there is asmnuch
mental power in: those six young heads, as mu-nrh orighality,
as much activity and vigor of brain, as-divided among hal'f
a dozen common-place broods- -would give to each rather nt rsa
than.arl average amount of' sense and capacity.  Mr. YorkL
knows: this, and is proud of his:race.'Yorkshire has sucth:
families here' and there among her hills and wolds-pectiliar,
racy, vigorouls; of' good blood'and strong brain.; trbulent
onievwl:sat in, the prid  of' their strength, zad jitractablle in




1C3                      1 R  E S RLY.
the force of their native powers; wanting polish, wanting
consideration: wanting docility, but sound, spirited, and true.
bred as the etgle on the cliff or the steed in the steppe.
A low tap is heard at the parlor door; the boys have been
makinlg such a noise over their game, and little Jessy, besides,
has been singing so sweet a Scotch song to her f:theer-who
delights in Scotch and Italian songs, and has taught his musical
little dauoghlter some of the best-that the ring at the outer
door was not observed.
"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously constrainedl and solemnized voice of hers; which ever modulates
itself to a fin.ereal dreariness of tone, though the subject it is
exercised upon be but to give orders fobr the making of a pudding in the kitchen, to bid the boys hang up their caps in the
hall, or to call the girls to their sewing: "Come in "   And
in came RLobert ~Moore.
Ml]oore's habitual gravity, as well ashis -abstemiousness (fot
the case of spirit-decanters is iever ordered up when lhe pays
an evening visit), has so far recommended him to M1rs. Yorke,
that she has not yet made him the subject of private animad-l
versions with her husband: she has not yet found out that he
is hampered by a secret intrigue which prevents him  from
marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing; discoveries
which she made at an early date after —marriage concerning
most of her husband's bachelor friends, and execluded them.
from her lboard accordingly: which part of her conduct, indeed, might be said to have its just and sensible, as welil as
its harsh side.
W Xrell, is it you?" she says to Mr. MNoore, -as he comes up
to her and gives his hand.  "''What are you roving about at
this time of night fbr?  You should be at home."
"' Can a single mnai be said to have-a home, madam ]" he
asks.
"Pooh!" says Mrs. Yorke, who despises-conventional smoothi
ness quite as much as her husband does, and practices it as
little, and whose plain speaking, on all occasions is carried to
a point calculated, sometimes, to awaicen admiration, but
-oftener alarm —" pooh! you need not talk nonsense to me  a
single man canr have a home if he likes.  Pray, -does not your
sister make a home for you?"
- "Not she," joined in Mr. Yorke. -" -Hortense is an -honest




BI ARMAIl NS.                     139
la'ss; but when I was IRtobert's age, I had live or six sistersall as decent and proper as she is, but you see, IHesther, for.all that, it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife."
" Andt sorely he has repented marrying me," added Mrs'.
Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against
matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense.
" He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore,
as you may well believe when you see his punishment" (hero
she pointed to her children). " WRho would burden themnselves.with suchi a set of great, rough lads as those, if they could help
it? It is not only bringing them into the world, though that
is bad enough, but they are all to feed, to clothe, to rear, to
settle in life. Young sir, when you feel tempted to marry,
think of our fbur sons and two daughters, and look twice before
you leap."
"I am not tempted now, at any rate: I think these are not
times for marrying or giving in. marriage."
A lugubrious sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain Mrs
Yorke's approbation: she nodded and groaned acquiescence;
-but ill:: a minute she said" I make little account of the wisdom of a Solomon of yotur
age; it will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you.:Meantime, sit down, sir: you can talk, I suppose, as well
sitting as standing."
ThisA was her way of inviting her guest to take a chai.;
he had no sooner obeyed her, than little Jessy jumped from!her father's knee, and ran into. Mr. Moore's arms, which were
very promptly held out to receive her,
"  You talk of marrying him,'i said she to her mother, quite
indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, " and he is
married now, or as good: he promised that I should be his
wife last summer, the -first time he saw me in my new white
frock and blue sash.  Didn't he, father ")  (These children
were not accustomed to say papa and mamma; their mother
wvould allow no such "namrby-pamby."').
"Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I'll bear witness. hBit
make him say it over again now, Jessy: such as he are only
talse Ioons."'             - 
" lie is not false: he is too bonnie to be false," said Jessyi
looking, up to hei tall sweetheart with the fullest confidence
lin his faith




il,~fdt           sHI RLEY'.
"Bonnie'" cried Mr. Yorke; "'that's the reason tlhat he
bhould be, -and proof that he is-a scoundrel."
"But he looks too sorrowful to be false," here interposed a
quiet voice from behind the father's chair. " If he were always.laughing, I should thilnk he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore
never laughs.".
"Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat-of:alL, Rose,"
-remarked Mr. Yorke.        --: -
"';He's not Isentimental,' said Rose.
MAr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise,'smiling at
the- sanme time.
"'lhow do -you klnow.-I am iiot sentimental, RFose.?y"' Because: I heard a lady say you were not.'
"Voil;, qui devient,-int&essant!". exclaimed Mlr. Yorke,
hitching his chair nearer the fire.  "A  lady! That has.quite a-romantic twang: we must guess who, it: is.  Rosy1
whisper the name low to your father: don't let- hint hear.'"
c" Rose, don't be- too. forward to tallk," -here interrupted Mrs.
Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion; " nor Jessy either: it becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the presncee
ofCtheir-elders."'    -.
W hy have wetnges, t hen,   llasked Jessy, pertly; whilb
R.ose only looked at her mother with an expression  that seemed
to say, she should take that maxim in, and think it,over at her
ieisure.,,, After two minutes' giaves'deliberaticn she.asked".And why especially girls, mother....
".Firstly, because I say so; and secondly, because discretion
and reserve is a girl's best wisdom."i  -
" My dear madam," obses'ved Moore,'1wh'at- you say is
-excellent: it reminds me, indeed,:of my dear sister's observations.; but really it is -not applicable to.these little ones.  Let;[ ose and- Jessy talk to me freely, or. my;ehief pleasure in
coming, here: is gone.'I like their p'rattil: it does me good."
"Does it'not?" asked Jessy.  "Morae good than if the rough
lads come round you: you call them rough, mother, yourselfi'
"Yes; mignonne, a thousand times more good.:.. I have rough
lads enough about me all day long, poulet."
"There are plenty of people," continued she,'"who take
notice of the boys:.; all my uncles and aunts seem to thnink;their nephews better than their nieces; and when gentlemen
come hero to dine, it is always Matthew, and Marlk, aan: d




B R A RM AI N.                   1 
Martiln, that are. t;ilkcd. to, and never' -rose and nme.  Mr
Moore is our friend, amnd we'll keep him: but, mind Blosc,
he's not so much your friend as he is mine: he is my part'ic
Wlar acquaintance; remember that!"  And she held up her
small hand with an admonitory gesture.
Rose was quit'e aecustomrned tobe admonished by that small,hand; her will daily bent itself to.that of the impetuous little
Jessy: she was guided —overruled by Jessy in.a thousand
things. -On all occasions of show and pleasure, Jessy.;took the
lead, and lose' fell quietly into the background; whereas
when the disagreeables of life-its work and privations we're
in question, Rose instinctively took upon her, in, addition'to'ter, own share, -what she. could of her sisters'.s..Jessy. had
already settled it in. her mind' that.she, when she. was olod
enough,_ was to be, married; ILose, she decided, must be an1
old  maid, to live' with her, look after her children;, keep hLe;.house. This state of things.is not uncommon' betweeln two
sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this
case,.if there was.a' difference in external:appearancea, Rose.hadl the advantage: -her face was more regulartfeaturled. than
that of the piquantlittle- Jessy.-' Jessy, however,: wra destined
to possess, along with sprightly intelligence and vivacious,.feeling, the gift of fascination, the. power to charm, when, where'
lnd whom  she would..:Rose was to have a fine, generous
oul, a noble intellect profoundly cultivated, a heart as true as
steel, but the manner to attract was not to.be hers.; "Now, Rose, fell me the name of this lady who denied that
I was:sentimental," urged Mar. Mfoore.'
Rose had no idea of tantalization, or'she would have'held
him a, while in doubt.; she answered briefly —
-"I can'tt: I don, t know her name."'
-" Describe her to me:, what was she lile?  Where did you
see' her?"::
- "Wheln'- Jessy., and I went to spend the day at Whinbury.with.Kate and Susan. Pearsoni  who were just come home fiorn
school, there was a.party at Mrs.- Pearson's, and some grown-'
up ladies were sitting in. a- corner of the. drawing-room talkiag
about you."
"'Did you know none of them.."'
"' Hannannah   d Harriet, and Dora, and Mary R Syke.s,
"Good..Were, they abusing me, Rosy T"




112                   SI 81RLE~Y.
"Some of thlem-  were: they called you a misanthrope:
rexnember the word —I looked for it in the dictionary when I
came home: it means a man-hater."
W' Vhat besides?"
"'-Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy."
B etter!" cried lVlr. Yorke, laughing.  "Oh! excellent 
Hlannah —that's the one with the red hair: a fine girl, but
half-witted."
"She has wit enough for me, it appears," said 2Moore.  "A
solemn puppy, indeed! Well, RIose, go on."
4"Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of
affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale
face, you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle."
Again Mr. Yorke laughed: Mrs. Yorke even joined in this
time.  "You see in what esteem you are held behind youi
back,";' said she;." yet I believe that Miss Pearson would like
to catch you: she set her cap at you when you first came into
the country, old as she is."
-'And who contradicted her, Rosy?" inquired Moore,
" A lady whom I don't linow, because she never visits here;
though I see her every Sunday at church; she sits in the pew
near the pulpit.  I generally look at her, instead of looking
at my prayer,-book; fbr she is like a picture in our diningroom, that woman'with the dove in her hand: at least sahe
has eyeslike it, and a nose too, a straight nose, that makes al)
her face look, somehow, what I call clear."
"' And you don't know her!" exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of
exceeding surprise.  "That's. so like Rose. LMr. Moore, I
often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives; I am suro
she does not live all her time in this: one is continually finding
out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter which.every body else knows.  To. think of her going solemnly to
church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one par-,Kticular person, and never so much as asking that person's;name! She means Caroline Ielstone, the rector's niece: I
remember all; ab-out its-: Miss IHelstone was. quite angry with,Anna P'earson.:. she said,' Robert Moore is neither affected
nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly, or, rather,
not one of you here knows'- any thing about it.' Now, shall 1 
tell yoen what slie is like?  I can tell what people, are like7
and how they are dressed better than RPose can.'




B R.I A R.A:IN. M                   13'L Let us hiear."'
She is nice;, she is:fabir, slhehas a pretty, white, slendcr
t1roat; she has long curls, not stiff ones, they hang loose and
soft, their color is brown but not dark; she speaks quietly,
with a clear tone; she never makes a bustle in moving; she
o!ften wears a gray silk dress; she is neatall over: her gowns,
and her shoes, and her gloves always fit her.- She is what I
call a ladvy, and when I am as tall as she is, I meanl to be like
ler:.  Shall I sultyou if I am?  Will you really marry me?"
Mioore stroked Jessy's hair: for a minute he seemed as if he
would draw her nearer to. him, but instead he. put her. little
fkrther off. 
" Oh f you woa't have me. Yon push me away."';" hy, Jessy, you care nothing about. me: you never como
to se rrme now at the Hollow."
"B ecause you, don't ask me.' 
H-ereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitatioan
to pay hinm a visit next day, promising, that _as he was going
to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a present,
of what nature he would not then declare, but they mnust come
and see.. Jessy was about to reply, when one of the boys
unexpectedly broke in i.:: ";  know that. Miss IEelstone you have. all been palavering
aboutl: she's an ugly girl. i    hate her! i Ihate -all women-.
ites&.     wonder what they were made for."
I'Martin l" said- his father-for Martin it was-the ladt
only.answered by turning his cynical young face, half-arch,
halltl ruculnt, toward the paternal chair.; B'artin, my lad,
thou'rt a swaggering whelp, now; thou wilt some day be an
outrageous puppy: but stick to those. sentiments of thine.,
See, I'l1 write down tle words now i' my pocket-bool,  (The
senior t took out a morocco-covered book, and deliberately w.rote'
therein.) ITen years hence, Martin, if thou and IL be both
alive at that day, I'11 remind thee of that speech.".
I'll. say the same then: I mean always to liate women>
they're such dolls; they do nothing but dress thcmselvet
finely, and go swimminig about to be. admired.  I'il never
Ularrv: I'll be Ia. batelor."
"Stick to it! stick to it!  Hesther (addressing hiis wife) i
was like him when I was his age, a regular  misogamist;;and.
behold! by the time I was three-and-twenty-being then a
G0




I 44 I  SHI R L E Y.
tourist in France and Italy, and the Lord knows where' —
I curled 7my hair every nig'ht befobre I went to bed, and wore a
ring i' my ear, ard would have worn one i' my nose if it had
been the fashion-and all that I might make myse!' pleasing
and charming to the ladies.- Mliartin will do the like."
"Will I?  Never!  I've more sense. aWhat a Guy you
were, father  As to dressing, I make this vow: I'll never
dress more finely than as you see me at present.  Mr. Moore,
I'm clad in blue cloth fiom top to toe, and they Iaugh at me,
and call me sailor at the grammar school.  I laugh louder at
them, and say they are all magpies and, parrots, witt; tiheir
coats one color, and their waistcoats another, and their trow'
sers a third. I'll always wear blue cloth, and notling but blue
cloth: it is beneath a humnan beinog's dignity to dress himself
in parti-colored garments."
"Ten years hence, Mi[artin,  no tailor's shop will havechoice of colors varied enontitl br thy exacting taste; no
perfurner's stores essences exquisite enough for thy fastidious
sen.ses,  -
Martin looked disdain, but vouchsafed no fhrther reply.
Alealntime, Mark, who for some minutes had been rummagingr
among a pile of books on a side-table, took the word.  tle
spoke in a peculiarly slow, quiet voice, and with an expression
of still irony in his face not easy to describe.
"_5IMr. I[oore," said hej, "you think perhaps it was a corLpliment on Miiss Caroline HI-Ielstone's part to say you were not
sentimental.  I tholght:you appeared confused wheni mv
sisters told you the words, as if you felt flattered: you turnedt
red, just like a certain vain little lad at our school, who
always thinks proper to blush when he. gets a rIse ia the
class.  For your- benefi-t, M.r. 1M.oore, I've been lookingr up
the word'sentimental' in. the dictionary, and I nieqd it to
mean' tinctured with sentiment.': On examining   furitheer,'sentiment' is explained to be thought, idea, notion.: A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts, ideas, notions;
an unsentimental man is one destitute of thought, idea, or
notion."'
And Mark stopped: he did not smile, he did not look round
for admiration; he had said his say, and was'silent.
" Mta foi! mon ami," observed Mr.!Moore to Yorke,; "ce
sont vraimlent des enfants terribles, que les votres!"




B RIARMAINS.                       145
Rose, who hlad been listening attentively to Mark's speech,
replied to hin —
"There are diflerent ldind of thoughts, ideas,'and notions,"
said she,': good and bad: sentimental must reifr- to the bacd,
or Miss 1-elstone must have taken it in that sense, for she
was not blaming  Mr. Moore; she was defending  him."
"That's my kind little advocate "" said Moore, taking
Rose's hand.
"She was defending him," repeated ERose, "as I should
have done had I been in her -place, fbr the other ladies seemed
to speak spitefully."
"Ladies always do speak spitefully," observed Martin; "it
is the nature of womanites to be spiteful."
Matthew now, for the first time, opened his lips —
"What a fool Martin is, to be always gabblinlg about what
hbe does not understand."
"It is ny privilege, as. a freeman, to gabble on whatever
subject I like," responded Martin.
"You use it, or, rather, abuse- it, -to such an extent," rejoined the elder brother, " that you )prove you ou(ght to have
been a slave."
"A slave  a slave!'T hat to a Yorke, and from a Yorke!
This fellow," he added, stanlding up at the table, andi pointing across it to Matthew-" this fellow bGrgets, what every
cottier in. Briarfield:knows, that all born of our house have
that arched instep under which water can flow —proof that
there has not beenl a slave of the blood ibr three hundred
ye arls.'
"Mountebiank!" said Matthew.
"Lads, be, silent!" excla.imed Mr. Yorke.  "Martin, you
are a mischief-maker:  there would have been no disturbance,
but ibr you."
"Indeed! Is that correct? Did 1 begin, or did Matthewl
-:ad I spoken to him when he accused rne of gabbling like a
"A presumptuous fool-!" repeated Matthew.
Here M;irs. Yorke commenced reeking herself-rather a
portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally followed,
especially when Matthe;w was Worsted in a conflict, by a fit
of hysterics.
"I I don't see why I should bear insolence from  Matthew




itO 4GIS, II i L;- _B Y.
Vorkeo,. or lwhat right hie has to use bad Jlaunguage to x.e,'
observe     Martin.
"He has no- ight, my lad; but forgive your brother untit
seventy-andseven ti1mes," said lTr.  Yorke, soothlingly.
*  Always alike, antid theory and. practice always advere'"
raurmured Martin, as he turned to leave-the room.
"Whiere art thlou going,. my son,q" askled the iather.
S omewhere iwhere- I shall be safb from insult; if in this
house I can find any such place."
Matthew lau(ghed very insolently: MIIartin threw a strange
look at hinm, and trembled through all his slight lad's friame;
but lie restrained himself.
I suppose. there is no objection to m- withdrawing'." he
inquilred.
o; go, m-ny lad: but remrember nrot to bear malice."
5Martitt   went, and Matthlew sent another insolent laugh
after him.  tos e,-lifting her fair hea.d fr-om lMoore's shoulder,
ag.ainst which, 1br a rmoment, it had been resting, said, ~as sha
directed a steady gaze -to!atthewO-V". Martin is grrie ved and
y:,ou are glad; biat I Nuid rather be M.artin than you, I dishike, your nature,'r
T1-re  ir. Moore, br way y of averting, or at leas>t escapingl,
a seene —whicr a sob fromn 3Mirs. Yorke -warned him  was
iikely to come on-rose, and putting Jessy off his Inee, he
kisse4 her and. Rose; reminding therm, at the samie time, to
be sure and come to the Hollow  in good time to-morriow
afternoon:  theng, having talken leave of his hostess, he said to
Mr. Yorke-"?May I speak a word with you?" and was foltowedc by him from the room.  Their brief confbrence toobk
)lace in the hall.'" Have you employment fi' a, good. workman I" asked
iM~oore.
"( A nonsense question ina these tires, when you. know that
every master has many.good. workmen to whom he can not
give full employment."
"You must oblige me by taking on this man, if' possible."
"My lad. I cai.talke on no mnore hands to oblige all. ELgland.."'f It does not signify; I must find him a place somewhere:'
"Who is he?"
"William Farren."




B3 RIARM AINS.                     i4
I. know AVilliam;  right down honest man is Williarn.'"
"  e has been out of woik three rnonths; he, has a large
family:we are sreI they can not live withaout wages: he
was one of' a deputation of cloth-dressers whY.o came to me
this mnorning   to complain and threaten.  William   did not
threaten; he only asked me to give them rather amore titme —
to make imy chaulles more slowly.  You lnow I canl not do
that: straitened oa all sides as I a.m, I have nothing for it
but to push oni.  I thought it woultid be idle to palaver long
with themn.  t se-nt themn away, after arresting a rascal amomg
t;hem, whom  I hope to talnsport: —a fellow who preaches at
the chapel yonder sometimes."
Not Moses             niarraeloug'h'?"
"Yes."
"A Al! yvoulve - arrested.him?   Good!'iThe  out.f a
scoundrel yonure going to makie a mavrtyr: Svou've done a wise
thing."'
I've done a right t-inig.  Well, the short aund the long
of it is, I'm determinted to get -iarrlen a- place, and I reekol
on you to give haim one,"'"T ha, is cool, however!" exclaimed MrI, Yorke.  "Wh.'t
r;iglt have vyo  to reckot on ome to provide for your dismissed
workmen?   kVhat do I knllow about your Farrens and your
Willia.ns      I've heard he's an honest lman; but am  1: -to
stupport all the hlonesi nen in IYorkshire?  You may say that
would be no great charge to undertake; but great or lit tle,:11 none of' it."
"Come, Mr. YorkeL, what can yoe fiend for him to do?"
"' find    You'll make  mne use langua ge I'm  not accustomedne  to use. I wish yo would go homxe —here is the door —
aet ofif'l
M'oore sat Gdown on' one of' the hail. chairs.
Yon can't give hintm wcork in your mill-good —but yeoU'have land' find him  s7ome occIpati-on oD0 your land, Mr,'l Bob, I: thought you cared nothing about our'lourdalud
de paysans.' I don'; t understand this change."
"I do: the fellow spolke to me nothing but'truth -and sense.
I answered himri just as roughly as I did the rest, who jabbered
mere gibberish. I couldn't make. distinctions there and then:
his a.ppearance told what he had gane ithrough lately ciear



148                     SHIRILEY:.
tihan his words  but where is the use of expiainilrg'I Lei
h'Iim have work.";' Let him have it yourself.  If you are so -very much in
iearnest, strain a point."
" Iff there was a poilt left in my affairs to strain, I would
stain it till it cracked again; but I received letters this morninUg wVhien show ume pretty nearly where I stand, and it is not
far ofi' thb  end of the plank.  My foreign market, at an:y rale,
is gogel.d  I' therie is no chage. —if there dawns no prospect
of peace  if he Orders in. Council are not, at least, suspendoed,
so to open olr wciay in ihe'West-i   do not know w7here I anml
to turl.     I see no more light t:han if'  were sealed in a rolck
so Lthat ibr mei to pretend to oflbr a man a livelihood would be
to do a dishonest thing."'CoLne, let us take a turn on the front  it is a starlight
night," said Mr. Yorke,
TIhey passed out, closing the front door after them, and side
by side; paced the frost-white paverment to and frio.
iSettle about Farren at once," urged TMr. Moore.  "You
hlave large fruit-gardens at; Yorke Mills:  he is a good gardener: give him work there."
Well, so be it. I'll send for him  to-morrow, an d we'll
seeC  And now, my lad, you're concerned about the conltilion
of yolur  afiaMrs?"
"'Yes: a second fiuire —whichl   I may delay, haut which,
at this moment, I see no way finally to avert-would bligrht
the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had fine
intentions of paying oft'fvery  debt, and re-establishinTg the old
firm on its former basis."
You want capital-that's all you want."' Yes; but you might as well say that breatlh is all t dead
main wan.ts to live."
I know-i know capital is not to be had for the asking;
and if youn were a married man, and had a family, like n-te,': should thinkl your case pretty nigh desperate; but the young
and unencumbered have chances peculiar to themselves.  I
hear gossni, nowv and then, about your being on the eve of
marriage with this mis mis and that, but I suppose it is none of
it true''
"Yo u nmay well suppose tlat: I think I am not in a position to be drceaming  of marriage. Matriag e! I can not bear




BRIARM3AINS.                      14
th-e word, it sounds so silly andi utopial'. I have settled it
decidedly that marriage and love are superfluities, intended
only ibr the rich, who live-at ease, and have no need to takG
thought for the morrow; or desperations, the last and recldess
joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of the
slough of their utter poverty"
I should not think so, if I were circumistanced as you
are: I: should think I could very likely get a wife with a few
thousands, wxho Wouhld suit both nme andt my affiats."'I wonder w heC e?"
M' VUld you try, i.you had a chance?"',1 don't know;  it depcnds on —-in short, it depends oil
mnany -thin gs,
" Would you. take auol  l woman 
" Id rather break stones on the road.'
"So -ould I.  Would you take an ugly one?"
" Bah! I hate ugliness anid delight int beauty: my eyes
anud fheart, Yorke, taket pleasure in a t sweet, young, lair face,
as they are repelled by a grim, rugged, meager one: soft,
delicate litnes annd hules please-'hanrsl ones prejudice me.  I
won't have an ugly wife."
"Not if she were rich?'
Not it' she were dressed in gems.  I could not love —.I
could not fiancy-_[ could not enlure her.  My taste nlust
have satisfaction, or disgust would. break out iu despotism —or worse, fieeze to utter icinles."
" What, Bohb, if you married an honest, -goodmnatured, and
wealthy lass. though a little hard-favored, couldn't you put u:
with the high-cheek bones, the rather wide mouth, and re}
dish hair?"
"I'1 never try, I tell you.  Grace, at least, I t:ill have,
and youth and symmcetiryyes, and what 1 call'beauty."
" And poverty, and a nursery fill of bairns you can neither
clotlhe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother —and
then bankruiptcy, discrcdit, a li-filong struaggle,"
"Let mre alone, Y'orkle."
"If you are romantic, Robert, and'especially if you are
already in love, it is of no use talkinmg."
"I am not xromant.ic.  I am stript of romance as bare as
the x uite tenters in thait field are of cloth."
"A!ways u se such fig,,re' of' speech, lad; I can iul iL.



I50                      8   I IMt L E Y;.:
stand then:..nd there is nio lov-affit r to ditsurb yeu l-judg;'meat?5'
i thought-  I had said-enough on that slbject beforve, Love
for me?  Stuff!"'Tell, then, if you are sound. both in heart and lhead, there
is no reasona why you sho-uld not profit by a good chance if it
-ofiers: therefore, wait anzd; see."'Vou are qlite oracular, Yorke."
i think I am a'bi i' tha linle. I utromise ye naught, and
I advise  e n iuauht;  but I bid ye;kee.p your heart up, and be
guided by circntlmstances..":"My inaoesake,' the physician's aismana, cot:l-d not speak
more guardedly."
In the mean tlime, 1 care naught about ye, Robeert 3Moore.
ye are nothing akin to me or mine, and whet;her ye lose or
find a fortuine it-msaks no diflerence to me.  Go home, -now:
it has stricken ten.  aiss Helortense w'sill be wondering whese
ye are."
CiHAPTEIR IX.
OLD) AIM T9S.
~TirE wore on;' anid spring- matured. The su.rfaceof England
began to look pleasant: her fields grew green, her hills friesh,
her gardens blooming; but a  heart she -as no better: still
her poor  e're wretched, still their employers were harassed:
commerce, in Isome of.its" btranches, seemed tlhreatened with
paralysis, for the war (continued(; England's blood' was shed,
and her wealth lavished: all, it seemed, to attain most inadequate ends.  Some, tidings there were indleed oceeasinally of'
successes in the Peninsula,  but these came in -slwly: long
intervals occurred between, in which no note was heard bu".
the.insolent self-felicitations of Bonaparte on his continued
triump)hs.  Those who. suffered ifrom  the results of the war
feit this tedious, and —as they thought —hopeless, StruggleI
againnst what their fears or their interests talught then  to
regard as an invineible powaer,  most in'sufferable:- they de



o L D MAD IS.                       151
lalnded pea-e 1n any term.s   men lhike Yoklie and. lo or00 —
and there were thousands whom  the-war placed where  it
placed theml, shuddering on the elrge of bankiruptey —insisted
oti peaee, with the enlergy of desperation.
T.hey held meetings; they made speeches; -they got up
peti.tions to extort this boon: on what terms it was made,
tlhey cared not.
All men, taken s;i:tr, ave more or less selfislh; and tatker
in bodi es they  are i[ntens ely so,  The tBitish merchant is no
e.ception to this.ulee  thlme rcantile classes illustrate it
stritkiultisrly.  Thle. ciasses certainly think too exclusively of'
making roney: they are too oblivious of every national consideration buLt that of extendinog Enoland's (i. c; their own.)
-commerce.  Chivalrous  beeling, disinterestedness, pride int
honor, is too dead in Itheir hearts.  A lame1 ruled by therl
alone would too often make ignominious submnission-lnot at
all florn:the imotives Christ teaches, but ra;ther from those
MIalnmon ir.stills,  During  the late war, the traadesmen of
Etiglarrld xirould have endured bufiets from -the?iench on the
ighlt cheek and on the left; their cloak they woulcd hav,(i
Ogien to Napoleon, and then hatve politely oflered him  theirt
coat also, nor woucl  they have withheld their vaisteoat i'
ulrged: they would have prayed permission only to retain
their one other gar-mlent, for the sake of the piurse in its pocket.
Not one spark of spirit, not one symrptom  of resistance would
they have shownl till the hand of the Corsican' bandit hatl
girasped that beloved purse; then., perhaps, transfigured ai;
once into British bull-dogs, they woul!ld -have sprung at the
robber's throat, and there they would have fastenedj anr
theere hunmg-inveterate, insatiable, till the treasure had'been
restored.  T-radesmen, when they speak against war, always
profess to hate it because it is a bloody and barbarous proceeding:' you would think, to hear them  talk, that they are
peeuliariy civilized-espeeially gentle and kindly of dispositio-ti
to tiheir iellowvmen.  This is not the case.  Many of them
-.Ae extrernely na.rrow and cold-hearted, haxe no'good feeling
ibr ainy class but their -owir, are distant-even hostile to:all
others; call them  useless; seem  to question their right to.exist; seemn to grudge themn the very ail they breathe, and tG
think tlie circumstance of their eating, drinking, and living in
decent houses, quite n-jlistifiable.' hey do'not inow w.ha
G*!)




152.o;-i~ tI1 I R L RLE Y.
others do in the way of helping, -pleasing, o-r leaching t.hei
race; they will not trouble themselves to inquire: whoever
is not in trade is accused of eating the bread of idleness, of'
passing a useless existence.  Long may it be ere England
really becomes a nation of shopkeepers I'We have already said thatZ Moore was no self-sacrificing
patriot. anld we ]:lave also explained vwhat circumstances renderedt him specially prone to con:fine his attention and ellbrts
to thCe furtherance of his individual interest; accordingly,
w ren lie fblt hiimself urged a second time to the brink of ruin,
rone struorgled harder.than he against the influence which
would riave, thrust him  ovser. o.What he cocdd do toward
st;irrinoup a nitation in the north against the war, he did, and
he instigated others whose mroney alnd connections gave them
nmore power  than he  possessed. Sometimes, by flashes, he felt
tlhere was little reason in the demands his party mrade on
4Government: when he heard of' all Europe threatened by
Bonaparte, and of all Europe ar-uing to resist himn; when ho
saw Itussia menaced, and beheld {Russia risiing, incensed and
stern, to defend her frozen soil, her wild provinces of serfs, he1r
dark native despotism, i'oro the tread, the yole, tlhe tyranny
of aiobreign victor, he knlew that EZEngland, a free realm, could
not then depute her sons t;o make concessions and propose
tern-ms to the unjust, graspintg French leader.'WVhen nxews
came from time to time of' the imovenments of tha~t MrAN then
representing ECngland-in the Peninsulat; of his advance from
success  to success-that advance so deliberate but so unswerving,: so eircumnspect but so certain, so "unhasting" bu.t so "unrestino,g' wihen lie read Lord W;el!ingtonl's own dispatches in;he columns of tlne newspapers, documentswritten by Miodesty
to the dictation of Truth-i-loore confessed at Ileart that a
pow:er xx as with the.troops of Britain, of that vigilant, enduring,  oenuine, unostentatious sort, lwhich must win victory
to the side it led, in the end.  In the end! blut that end, ho
thought, wNas yet far off; and meantime he, Moore, as an
intdividual., would be crushed, his hopes ground tc dust' it -vwas
himiself'he lhad to care fbr, his hopes he had to purlsue, arnd he
would fulfill his destinyr.
iIe fulfilled it so vigorously that ere long  he came to a
decisive rupture with his old Tory friend, the rector.  They
quarreled at, a public meeting,- and afterward exchanged some




OLD  MAIDS.                      153
punUgent letters i the newspapersf Mr. Itelstone denounced
Moore as a Ja.cobin., ceased to see- him, would not eoven speak
to him wvhen they met: he intimated also to his niece, very
distinctly, that her conmmunications with H-ollow's cottaTge
must for the present cease; she must give up taking French
lessons.  The language, he observed, was a bad and frivolous
one at the best, and cmost of the Nw-orks it boasted were bad
and frivolous, highly iinjurious in their tendency: to weak
female minds. HIe wondered (he remarked parenthetically)
what noodle first made it the fashion to teach women French:
nothing was more improper obr them; it was like feeding a
rickety child on chalkn and water-gruel: Caroline must give
it u)p, and give up her cousins too: they were danlgerous
people.
Mr. Helstone quite -expected opposition to this order: he
expected tears.  Seldom did he trouble- himself about Caroline's movements, but a vague idea possessecl him that she
was fond of going to Hollow's cottage: also he suspected tlha
she liked -I.obert Moore's occasional presence at the rectory.
The Cossacl had perceived that whereas if' Malone stepped
in of an evening to make himself sociable and charming, by
pinclincg the cars of an agedtl black cat, which usually shared.
with Misws fHestone's feet the accommodation of her lbotstool,
or by borrowing a fowling-piece, and banging away at a toolshed door in the garden, while enough of daylight remained to
6;howt that conspicnous mark keepinrg thZe passage and sitting
room doors rimeantime uncomfortably open, for the convenience'of running' it and out to announce his failures and successes
withl noisy brusquerie-he had observed that under such en
tertaining circumstances, Caroline had a. trick of disappearing,
tripping noiselessly up-stairs, and remaining invisible till called
down:to supper.  On the other hand, when Robert M.oore
was the guest, though he elieited no vivacities from the cat,
did nothing to it, indeed, beyond occasionally coaxing it fronm
the stool to his knee, and. there lettinrg it purr, climb to his
shoulder and rub its head against his cheek; though there
was no ear-slitting cracking  off o fo fire-arms, no diffihsion of
sulphurous gunpowder perfume, no n.oise, no boasting duringi-r
his stay, that still Caroline sat in the room, and seemed to
find wondrous content in the stitching of Jew-basket pin.
cushions, and thlie knitting of Missionary-basket socks.




r151.54          I R I., E Y.'She. was very quiet, and. R-Pobert paid'heit little attentinm
scarcely ever addressing his discourse to her; b t A.t. M elstorne, not being one of those elderly gentlemen'vlo are easily
blinded, on the contrary, findin(g himself on all occasions exteremely wide-awake, had watched them when they bade each
other good-night': he had just Seen their eyes meet once —only
otlce.  Some natures would have taken pleasure in the glanee
Ihen surptised, because there was no harin and. somne delighl:
in it.  It was ty no means a -glanee of' mutual intelligenee,
tbr rutitual love-secrets existed not between them: Ihere was
nothing, then, of -raft' and eoncealnmer!t; to oflend; only M1r.
Moore's eyes, lookingc into Caroline's, iMlt the y were clear anti
gentle,  and Carolineo's.eyes, enlcountering Mr. Moore's, contfesed they vwere manlyr and searching:  each acknowledgerd
the charm  in his or het ol.Zn vrway.  Moore smiled slightly,
avtd Caroline coloered as slightly.  Mr. HIelstone could, on the
spot, have rated tfhem both: they annoyred him; why?-im -
possible to say.  If you had asked him  what Moore mnerited
at that moment;, hle would have said "a horsewhip " if' you
had inq-ulired into C aroline's deserts, lie would have adjudged
her a'box on the ear; if'y ou had fIrlither demai.nded the reason
of such chastisene'Its, he would have stormned against flirtation
and love-makling, and vowed' he wouldl have no such tfoly
going onu -tider his roof.
- These private considerations, combined with political reai —
sons, fixed his resolution of separating the cousia;s.  Ile announcede his will to Caroline one erening, as she vwas sitting
at ~work near the drawin-roonm window' her face was turned
toward -hin, and the liglht feill full upon it   It hadcL struck him:a few ninutes before that she was lookiifig   paler  and quieter
than she used to lool; it hlad not escaped hin either tIhat
IRobert Moore sname had never, Ior some three weleks past,
dropped from her lips; nor during the samer space of time hadl(
that Personage  cade hi appersonage mae  ppe ne at le rectory.   om
suspicion of clandestine mneet-inpgs haunted hins nini; haviing
but an indlftrent opinion of women, he always suspectet.
them: ho thought they needed constant watceing. I. t was
ia a tone drily significant hle desired her to cease  her daily
visits to the Hollow; he. expected a start, a look of deprecation': the start he saw, but it was a very slight one; ito toofi
whistever was directed to him,.




- LD  MAI D S.                     iSeP
Do you hear  me?" he aslkIed.'~ Yes, Uncle.".'4 Of course, gyou mean to a;ttend to what: I say 
"'Yes, certainly."-.
"And there must be no letter-scribbling to your cousin iortense: no intercourse whatever.  I do not approve of the
principles of te familvy; they are Jacobinical."
Very well," said Caroline, quietily   She acquiesced thzen
there was no vexed flusljing ol the itce, no gathering tears:
thle shadowy thou,ahtiudalness -which had co cvered her features etrc
Mr. Ilelstone Fpoke re-mained undisturibed: she was obedient.
Yes, perfetly; because the mandai.te coincided with her
own1.1 previous judgneont; because it was now become pain to
her to go to tollow's cottage  nothi:ngm  ret her t.here but dicappoinmUrnent  hope aln.d lovere had / iitted  that little' ieemellt,
Gor Robert seemed tLo have deserted its precinctcs.  T henever
she asked after: him —  hicli she very seldom- did, since the
imere utterance of his nrame  lade her face grow hot-the: answer wa s,-he was fiom homnle. or he was qutiite tfaken up wvith
busliness  Hortense ieared he was killing himslelf by applicatioh: he hscarcely ever tlook a meal in the house; he lived in
I he count -ing-house.
At churech only Caroline had the chance of seeing him, and
there she rarely looked at- him:  it was both too nmuach paini
ansd too much pleasure to look: it excited too much emotion;
alid that it was all  wasted emotioln, she had learned well Atol
comprehetndd. -
Once, on da         weart, wnet  Su-nday, -heiu there were fl-w people.
at, church, aud whenl especially certain ladies were absent, of
whose obseirvanti; fiaC.ti  anti  lfolhawrw  tongues.Carolirne
stood in. -a we, she had a.ilowed her. eye to seek I{obert's Dpew
and to rest awxhile on its occupant;. - I e was there alo e::
I:ortense had been'kept at home by prudent  conlsderaziolns
relative to the rain andl — new spring'chapean."  Duin
the. sermon, hie sati with  folded arms- and eyes cast dowxnr,;
looking very sad a.nd abstracted.. When depressed, thle very
hue of his iace seelied more dusk than when he smiled, anvl:
to-day ch.eek anid forehead wore their most tintless and sober,
olive.  By instinct, Caroclie knew, as she' examined that
ciouded countenance, 1.11tha  his.thoughts were rming11 1 iin ino
fimllhar or kiindly channe'l   that they were far awvay, nou




15tG                    SH-1 I'R L E;V.:
merely from her, but from  all vwhieh she counll,on:prtlhend.
or in which she could sympathize.  Notlhinu  that they hIad
ever talked of was now ia his mind': he was wrapped firoml
her by interests and responsibilities  in which it was deemed
such as she could have no part.
Caroline meditated in her own vay on thle subject; speelated on his feelings, otn his life, on. his fars,. o  ilis fate;
mused over tlhe mystery of' b" business,"   tried to comprehend
soore aboult if than had[ ever been told her-to.understand its
perplexities, liabilities, duties, exactions; enideavord to realize the stare of:ind of a "m';  anl of business," to.erero into it,
ieel what lie would feel, aspire to what lie would aspire. Her
earnest wish, was to see. things as they were, and not to be
romanrtic.  By dint of effort she contrived to get a glimpse
of the -light of truth here and there, and hoped that scant ray
might.suffice to guide her.' Diferent, indeed," she concluded, "is PLobert's menial
Qono'dition to mline: I think only of him; he lhas no roomn; no
leislure to think of mie.  The:[eeling called love is and -has
beetn for twso years the predominant. emotion of lay heart;
always there, always  awaie, always astir: quite other feelings.absorb his reflections, and govern his faculties.:ie is rising
niow, going to leave the elhurch, for service is over.  WiTll he
turn his head toward this pOw?-no-..ot once-he has not
one look  bor mei: that is hard'    a lkild glance would' have
made nce happy till tolmorirow:   I have not got it; he would
not g;ive it; he is gone. Strange that grief should now almost
choke me, because another human being s eye has failed to
gree; mine."
That -Sunday evening, Mr. a!lone comning, as usual, to
pass it. with his rector, Caroline rwithdrew, after tea, to her
chliamber.  Fanny, knowing her habits, had lit her a cheerful
little fire, as the weather -was so gusty and c'hill.  Closeted
there, silent and solitary, what could she. do but think?  She
noiselessly paced to and frio on the carpeted floor; her head
drooped,.her hands folded: it was irksome to sit: the current
of reflection ran rapidly throughn her mind: to-night she was
mutely excited.
Mute was the room.-nmute the house.  The double-door
of' the study muffled the voices of the gentlemen: the servants
were 3qiet in the kitchen, engaged with boolIs their;youn




OLD MAIDS.                         157
mistress had lent then  books which she had told thorn wore!
tit ibr Sulnday reading."  rAnid she herself had another of
the sarme sort open on tile table,'but she could not read it:
its theology was incomprehensible to her, and her own a mindt
was too busy, teeming, wandering, to listen to the lanlguage
of' another mind.
Then, too, her imaginationl was full of pictures: images of
MToore; scenes where he andiI she had been together;  winrte:r
fireside sketches   a glowving landscape of a hot summer afternoon passed wi;thl him in  the bosom of Nunnely wood; divine
vignettes of mild spring or mellow autumn moments, when
she had sat at his sidle in:Hollow's copse, listening to the call
of the May cuckoo, or sharing the September treasure of nuts
and ripe blackberries —-a wild dessert which it was her mornrig's pleasure to collect in a little basket, and cover with green
leaves andi fiesh blossoms, and her afternoon.'s delight to ad1ainister to Moore, berry by berry, an-d nut by nut, like a birdl
fleedin, its fledlinfg.
Robert's lia.tures and form were with her; the sound of his
voice was quite distitct in her ear; his few caresses seemed
renewed. But these joys, beings hollow, were, ere long, crushed
in: the pictures fJaded, the voice failed, the visionary clasp
mlelted chill fiom her hand, and4 w here the warm- seal. of lips
had rnadc impress on her forehead, it felt now as if' a sleety
ra'in-drop had fallen. She returned from an enchanted regiol
to the real world': for Nlirunnely wood in June, she saw her
narrow chamber; fibr the songs of birds in alleys, she heard
tihe rain on her ca.sement; for the sigli of the south wind,
came the sob of the mourmnlul cast; and fotIb  Moore's manly
companionship, she had the thin illusion of her own dimn
shadow on the wall. Turninc from the pale phantom which
reflected herself inl its out-line, and her reverie in the drooped
attitude' of its dim head and colorless tresses, she salt dowl —
inaction wxoulk  suit the frame of' mind into which she wvas
now declining-she said to herself-;I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years.  As far as I
know, I have good ]health:. half a century of existence may
lie beltbr me.  H-low am I to occupy it;?  What am I to do
to fill the interval oi time which spreads between me and the
She reflected.




I t.             * S * SHIRLEY.
"  I shall not be marrled, it appears," she con'tinued.'I 
suppose, as'Robert does not care fobr i.n, I shall never irav-(
at. huisband to love, nor little children to talke care of.  Till
iately I had reckoned securely on the duties and affections eo'
wift and manother to occupy m.y existence.  I considered, somne
how, as a matter of course, that.    i was growinSg Lup to' t'1h
ordinary destiny, and. never trouibled myself to seek any otlher;
hbut now, I. perceive plainly, I mnny  ha.ve behel mnristaken
Probably I shall be an old maid.  I shal l ive to see Robert
manrried to some one else, some ricih ].,dy, I shall nerver ma'rry.
iWhat was I created 1ir, I wonder?'Where is roy place in
the world.?"
She mused afgain.
1" Ah! I see,"- she pursued, presently, "t' that is the tuestion
wvhilch most'old maids are puzzled to solve: other people solve
it for them  by saying,' Your place is to do good to others, to
be helpful whenever help is wanted.'  That is r-ht in sorue
measure, and a, very convenien; doctrine for the people who
hold it; but I pereive thIat certait.   sets of husaen bcing s
a.e very apt to mainainins that other sets should give up their
lives to them  and their  service, allnd the  they requitae,them
by praise: they call them  devotel  and virtuous.   -Is this
enough x    Is it to live    I[s there not a terrible hollowness,
mxockery, wani-, carinig, in. that existence which is ivenl away
to others, fbr wlant of somethling of your OMwn to bestow it on?
I suspect there is-.  Does virt:ue lie in abnegation of self'?  I
do not believe it.' rtdue humility makes tyraiuny' Wreak
csonession creates sel-fishness, The Romish religion especially
I eaches renunciation: or self, sublnission to others, and nowbhere
are. blund so many grasping  tyrants as in the rankrs of the
lomish priesthood. IEach human beinr has his share of rlghts.
TI suspect it would conduce to the happiness and welfare of all,
if each knew his allotment, and held. to it as tenaciously as
the martyr, to his creed.:Queer thou hts these that sure inc
ny mi.nd: are they rightt thoughts?  I anm not certain.
VWell, life, is short, at the best: seventy years, they say
pass like a vapor, like a dream -when one awa-keth; and every
yath.trod by human fLet terminates in one bourne —lhegrave:
the little chink in.. the: sirface of this great globe-the furrow
where the mighty husbandman with the scythe deposits the
seed hle has shaken fromn the ripe sterm; and thero it falls,




OLFD )MAIDS.                        im
deca.ys and thence it springs again, when ithice-torld his rolled
round it few times nmore.'  So much fbr the body: the sou I;meantinle wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on theI
brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing down through;
t;1-e burning   clearness,. finds there mirrored.the vision of the
Chriistian's triple Godhead': the Sotereign Father, the M;e/
diatling  Son, the Creator Spirit.  Such words, at least, have
been clhosen to express'what is inexpressible: io describe whbat
baffles deseription.. T.he sonl's real hereafter, who shall guess'?,
eir,fire wras decayedl t;o its last cinder;.Malone had idelaried, and now the -tudy-be lt.rang fbr prayers.
he lnext i~ay Caroline had to spend altogether alone, he-r
t.teile being gone lto dine with his friend Dr. 33oultby, vicar
of WXhinburv.   The whole timre she was -talking inwardl-, ia
the' same strain: looling iforward, asking wlhat she was to do
with lifb..Fanny, as she paned in and oiut of the room 0ea:.
sionally, intent on housernaid errands, perceived that her yolung'
mistress sat very still.  She was always in the samea.place,always bent industriouslv over a piece of a work:' she did nIot
if l-lher head to speak to Fanny, as her custom -was, and w-hen
tIe latter remarkic th   at;  lhe day was fin.e, and-lhe ughtlt td.
take a walk, she only saisl-" it is cold.'
"  ou are very diligent ant that sewing, Miss  Caroline,'"
contiinued the  irl, approaching.:her little table.
I" am tired of it, Fanny."
"Then why do you go on with ith?  P.u  it down: read,
cr do soimethirng to amuse yo."
It is solitary in this house, Fanny; don't you think so?"
"' I don't find it so, Miss.  Me and Eliza are company for
one another; but: you are quite too still-you should visit'
more.  Now, be persuaded; go up stairsi and dress yoursell'smart,.and  go and take t;ea,.in a friendly way, with Miss
Mlann or VMiss Ainlty': I am  certain either of those Inladieswouid be delighted to see you.'"
" But1 their houses aie dismal: they are both o!l maids.  I
arn certain old- maids areae very unhappy race.'
"Not they,: Miss:   they can't be unhappy; they talce such
(:care of lhemselRes.  T'hey are all. sel1fih. -
M M1iss Ainley is not selfish, Fiannly.: she is: always:doing
goodU. -H.Tow devoltedly kind she.ails to lier step-lother, as long
as -itie(:>  d ladiy lit ved  andt now when she is quite alone in the.




16,);                  K-t TP  I L E Y.
world, WVithout brother or sister; o-r any one to care for he?
how charitable she is *to the poor; as far as her means permit,
Still nobody thinks much of her, or has pleasure in going  to
see her: and how gentlemen always sneer at her!"
"They shouldn't, miss; I believe she is a good wromatn;
but gentlemen think only of ladies' looks."'
"I'll go and see her," exclaimed Caroline, starting up:
"and if she asks me to stay to tea, I'll stay.  How wrong it
is to neglect people because they are not pretty, and youlng,
and merry  Andt  I will errtainly call to see Mil iss Maann, too
shle may not be amiable; but what has made her unamriable?
What has lib been to her?'
Fanny helped Miss i-elstone to put away her work, and
afterward assisted her to dress.
Y'"  o'u'l not be an old maid, Miss Caroline," she said, as
she tied.the sash of her brown-silk frock, having previously
smyoothed her soft, full, and shining curlls; there are no sirgns
of an old maid about you."
Caroline looked at the little mirror before her, and she
thlought there were sorne sions.  She could see that she was
altered within the last month; that the hues of her complexionl
were paler, her eyes changed-a wan shade seemed to circle
them, her countenance was dejected: she was not, in short, so
pretty or so firesh as she used to be.  She dlistantly hinted this
to Fanny, from whom she got no direct answzer, only a remark
that people did vary it their looks; but that at her age a little
iallirlg away signified nothing —she would- soon come round
again, and be plumper and rosier than ever.- Having  given
this assurance, Fanny showed singular zeal in wrapping  her
up in warmi). shawils and handkerchiefs, till Caroline. neanriv
sumothered with the weight, was fin to resist fi.rther additions.
She?aid her vsits: first to Mbiss Mann, for this swas t' e
lost difficult point: Mhiss3 IMann.  tas certainly not quite;
lovable person.  Till now Caroline had always unhesi.tatingr!y
declaredl she disliked her, and nor le than once she had joined
her cousin Robert in laughing at some of her peculiarities.
Mi~oore was not habitually given to sarcasm, especially on any
thing humbler or wealer than'himself; but he had once ok
tiwice happened to be in the room when IMiss Mann had:made
a call on his sister, and after listening to her conversation'and
viewingi her ieatures tior a time, he had gone out into the gar.




O LD  MAIDS  161
den where his little cousin was tending soelll  of his favorite
flowers, and while standlling near and watching her, he had.
amused himself with comparing fair youth-delicate and attractive —with shriveled eld, livid and loveless, and in jestingly repeating to a smiling girl the vinegar discourse of a
cankered old maid.  Once on such an occasion, Caroline had
said to hiln, looking up from  the luxuriant creeper she wa:s
binding to its frame":Ah! Robert, you (do not like old maids.  I, too, should
come under the lash of your sarcasm, if I were an old maid.";  ou an old maid!" he had replied.  "A piquant notion
sutggested by lips -of that tint and form.  I can fancy you,
lthough, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunkf, but still with
that straight nose, white forehead, and those soft eyes.  I sup3pose, too, you will keep your Voice, which has another' timbre'
than that hard, deep organ of Mliss Miann's.  Courage, Car!
-even at fifty you will not be repulsive."'" Miss M{ann did not maice herself, or tune her voice,
Robert."
"Nature made her ia the mood in which she makes her
briars and thorns; whereas for the creation. of some women,
she reserves the May morning hours when with light and dew
she wooes the primrose from  the turf, and the lily from  the
wood.-mos. "'
UJshered into Miss Mann.'s little parlor, Caroline found her
as she always found her, surroundedt by perfect neatness, cleanliness, and comfort (after all, is it not a. virtue in old maids
that solitude rarely makes them negligent or disorderly?) no
dust on her polished furniture, none oa her carpet, firesh flowlers'i the vase on her table, a bright fire in the grate.  She
herself sat primly and somewhat grimly-tidy in a cushioned
rocking-chair, her hands busied with some knitting'  this  was
her favorite work, as it required the least exertion.  Shoe
scarcely rose as Caroline entered; to avoid excitement Yw-as one
of-Liss Jiann's aims in life; she had been composing  herself
ever since she came down in the morning,  and had just attained a certain lethargic state of tranquillity when the visitor's
knocik at the door startled her, and undid her day'-s work.  She
was scarcely pleased, therefore, to see Miss Ile!stone: she
received her with reserve, bade her be seated, with austerity,




-8 IT;IEY.
atnd when shse lhad got her placed opposite, she fix(d her \vitii
her eye.
This was 1o ordirlnary doom —to be fixed with Miss Mann's
eye.  Robert Moore had undergone it -once, and had never
forgotten the circumstane..':e considered it quite equal to ary t 1hing'Iedusaeounld do
he professed to doubt wilhether, since that infliction, his flesh
had been quiite -wha.t it was beforeb-whtht her there was eot
s,mething stony in its texture.  The gaze had had such ani
efijcht on him as to d:rive hi In. promptly from the apartment and
house; it had. even sent Ihimn str'fightway up to the rectory,
wherei he had appeared in Caroline's presence Alith a very
queer facel and amazed her by demanading a couinly saliite
o, the spot, to rectify a d amage thal; had been done him.
(certainly Miss Aianl  had a  foimidable eye for one of the
orier sex: it was prominent, and showed a grea.t deal of the
white, and looked as steadily, as unwintkngly, at youn as if it
Nwere a, steel ball soldered in her head; and when, while loolin.g, she began to talk ini   is indescribabiy dry monotonous
tonen-a tone without vibration or inflection -you f lt as it' f
graven image of some bad spirit were addressing  you.  BtL it
s all a figmnent of fancy, a matter of' surface.  Mifiss aelaim's
goblin-grimness scarcely dwent deeper than the angel-sw eetnesi
of hundreds of beauties.  She was a perbeetly honest, conat.
entilous XwomaiL, wvo had perfor7rmed dtties in her day froil
whose severe angu.ish imanly a. human Peri, gazelle-eyed, siikeln-!rvessed, sand silver-ton.gued, would have shrunlk appalled: she
-hbad passed alone through protracted scenes of sufiSrin-,? cxereised rigid self-denial, made large sacrifices of time, momley.
heasltb br those who had repaid her orly by ingratitude,  and
now her maain-almost lher sole-Kiult was, that she was cei,
Censorious she certainly was.  Cartoiine  had not sat Livmimnutes, ere her -hostess, still keeping her. under the spell of
th at dread and Gorgon gaze, began flayin  alive certain of the
families in the neighborhood.  She went to work at this i-lsixneoss in a singularly cool, deliberate nmanner, like -some surgeon
practicing witlh his scalpel on a lifeless subject: she made t. w
distinctions; sae ailowed scarcely any one fo be good; she
dlissected impartially almost all her acquaintance.  IJf her auditrcss ventirced now and then to put int a palliative word., sbe




OLD  iMAt D5.                    16A3
set; it aside with a  certain disdain.  Still, though thus pitiless,
in Imoral anltonmy, she was no scandal-monoger: she never dissenlinated really malignant or dangerous reports: it was nol
her heart so much ias her temper that wias:.wrong.
Caroline made this discovery for the first time to-dlay; an0d,
moved thereby to regret divers unjust judgments sle had more
than once passed on the crabbed old. maid, she began to talk tt,
her softly, not in sympathlizing word4, but with a sympathiziLrg
voice.  The loneliness of her condition struck her visitor in a
new light; as did also the character of her ugliness: a bloodtess pallor of complexion, and deeply worn lines of feature.:The girl pitied the solitary and afflicted woman; her looks
told what she felt: *a sTsweet counritenance is never so sweet as
-when the moved heart animates -it with compassionate tende-r.16s. Miss M:ann, seeing such a countenance raised to her,
was touched in her turn: she acknowledged her sense of the
interest thus unexpectedly shown in her, who usually met with
only coldness and ridicule, by replying to her candidly.  Comnmunicative on her own -afltais she usually was not, because.n eone cared to listen to her; but to-day she became so, and.her confidante shed tears -as she heard her speak:  for she told
of cruel, slow-wastingy obstinate sulfirings.::XWel might sho
be corpse-like; well lmight she look grim, and never smile;
well might she wish to avoid excitement, to gain and retair
composure!  Caroline, whecn she knew all, acknorwledged that
M.iss ila tin  was rather to be admired for fbrtitude than blamed
tbr moroseness,  teader! when you: behold an aspect lbr
whose constant gloom and frown you can not account, whose
unvarying cloud exasperates you by its apparent causelessness,
be sure that there is-a canker somewhere, and a canker not
tihe less deeply corroding because.cucealed.
M{iss Mlaiann felt i- that Lhe was understood partly, and wished
to be understood iurther; ibr however old, plain, humble,
desolate, afflicted we may be, so long as our hearts preservw.
the feeblest spark of life, they preserve also, shivering near.
that pale ember, a starved, ghostly longing for appreciatiol
and alfection.  To this extenuated specter, perhaps, a cruminb:
is not thrown once a year; but when a-hungered and athirst
tot famine —when all humanity has forgotten the dying tenant
of a decaying house-Divine MLerey remembers the mourner.
and a shower of manna falls for lips that earthly nutriment is




.16.                    St I3  I RLEY.
to pass no more...:Biblical promises, heard first in health, but
then unheeded, come whispering to the couch of sickness: it
is felt that a pitying God watches -what all mankind have
fobrsaken; the tender compassion of Jesus is recalled and relied
on: the faded eye, gazing beyond Time, sees a Home, a Friend,
a 1?Refuge in Eternity.
Miss  Mann, drawn on by ithe still attentiol of her listener,
proceeded to allude to circumstances m her past life.  She
spoke like one who tells-the trutl-h-sinply, and with a certain
reserve: she did notb boast, nor did sshc vxaggerate.  Caroline
fbund that the old maid had been a most devoted daughter
and sister, an unruwearied watcher by lingering death-beds; that
to prolonged and unrelaxing attendance on the sickl, the malady
that now poisoned her own life owed its origin; that to one
wretched relative she had been a support and succor in the
depths oif self -eaned degradation, and that it waras still her
hand which kept him i'omn utter  destitution.  Miss IHelstoner
staid the whole evening,  omitting to pay her otlher intended
visit; and when she left  Mfiss Manun, it was with the determination to try in fiture to excuse her faults, never argain to
make light of her. peculiarities or to laugh at h.er plainness:
and, abo-ve all things, nlot to nteglect her, but to come once
a week, and to offer her, from one human heart at -least the
homage of atecetion and respect: she felt she could now silcorely give her a small tribute of' each feeling.
Caroline, on her return, told Fanny she was very glad she
lhad gone out, as she klt much better for the -visit.  The next
day she failed not to seek MIiss Ainley.  This lady was in
narrower circumlstances than MlViss M3ann, and her dwelling
wras more humble: it Mwas, however, if possible, yet more exquisitely clean; though the decayed gentlewoman- could not alfi
ibird to keep a servant, butt waited on herself, and had only the
occasional assistance of a little girl who lived in a cottagea near.
iNot only was-l Miss Aiiley poorer, but she was even plainer
than the other old- maid.  In: her first youtlh she must have
been ugly; now, at the age of fifty, she was very ugly.  At
first sight, all'but peouliarly well-disciplined minds were apt
to turn from her with annoyance  to conceive against her a
prejudice, simply on the ground of her unattractive- look.
Then:she was prim in dress and manner: she looked, epoke,
and moved the complete old ilnaid.




OLD  iMAIDS.                      165
1aer welcome to Caroline was fbrmal, even in its kiiidness
— for it was kind; but Mi-s-s Helstone exnusei  this.  She
knew somethingl   of the benevolence of the heart -~which beat
under that starched kerchief; all the neighborhood-at least
all the female neighborhood-knew something of it: no one
spoke against - Miss Ainley except lively- young gentlemen, and
inconsiderate old ones, who declarect her hideolus.
Caroline was soon at hlome in that tiny ptarlor; a kind hand
took from her her shawl and bonnet, and installed her in the
most comfortable seat near the fire.  The young and the antiquated woman were presently deep in kindly conversation, and
soon Caroline becale a ware of the power a most serene, unselfish, and benignant mintd could[ exercise over those to whorn
it was developed.  She talked never of herself-always of
others.  T'ieir faults she passed over; her theme was their
wants, hllich she soulght to supply; their suflerilngs, which
she longed to alleviate.  Shlie was religious-a professor of
relition — what some 0would call "a saint," and she referred
to religion often in sanctioned phrase-in phrase which those
who possess a perception of the ridiculous, without owning the
power of exactly testilg -and truly judging character,'would
certainly have esteemed a proper subject for satire: a matter
fo;r mniicry and lulghter.  They would have been hugely
rmistaken for their pains.  Sincerity is never ludierous; it is
altways respectabie.  WVhiether truth —-be it religious or moral
truth —peak eloquently ainld in well-chosen language or not,
its voice should be heard with reverence.  Let those who can
not nicely, and with certainty, discern the diflbrence between
the tones of hypocrisy and those of sincerity, never presume to
laugh at all, lest they should have the miserable misfortune
to laugh ia the wrong place, and commit impiety when they
think they are achievinl- wiNt,:.Not; fiomn Mniss Ainley's own lips did Caroline hear of' her
good works; but she knew meluc  of thenm, nevertheless: her
beneficence  *was the iamiliar topic of the poor in Briarfield.
T'hey were not works of almsgivin:g  the old maid was -too;mOor to give much, though she straitened herself to privation
that she might contribute her mite when needful: they were
ihe works of a Sister of Charity, far more difficult to perform
than those. of a Lady Bountiful.  She would watch by any
sick-bed: she seemed to fear no disease; she would nmuse the




pooresti whoIl nonle ele would-nurs: she was sterene, humble.
klid, and cquable tirough every thling.-'For tlhis goodness shie got but little reward in this life.'Many of the poor became so accustomned to her services that
thely hardly-thanked her for them: the rich heard them men~tioned with wonder,'but were silent, fiom a sense of shame at
the diflerence bet ween her sacrifices and their ovw%7n.  Many
ladies, how-ever', respectedc her deeply - they could not help it
one gentlernan-one on]yr-gave her his friendship and perfect
confidence  this  ais Mr,.Iall; the vicar of Nunnlely.  Iie
sai., -and said truly, that her life came nearer  the life of' Christ,
than that of a ny other human- being -he had ever met with:'You.-must not-think, reader, that in sketching Miss  Ainley's
character, I d —-epict a figment of inagination-no110- we seek
the originals.of such portraits in real life only.
Miss Helstonie studiedt Well the mind and heart now revealed
to her.  She found no high intellect to admire: the old maid
was merely- sensible; but -she discovered so: much goodness, so
much usefilness, so mauch mildness, patience,. truth, that she
bent her own mind before Miss Ainley's in reverence.  Whiiat
wTas.-her love -of nature, what vas her sense of beauty;:what
were her:.more varied and fervent emotions, what was her
deeper power of- thought;   - what her wider capacity. to comprehend, compared to the practical excellence of this good woman70ll 
Momently, they seemed only beautiful forms of selfish delightrmentally, she- trod them under foot.:It is true,- she still -fblt with pain that the life which malde
Miss Ainley hlappy couldn not make her happy: pue - and
active as it wua, in her heart she deemed it deeply dreary
because it -was so loveless —oo  h(r ideas, so fobrlon.- Yet,
doubtless, she- reflected, it needed only habit to make it prac 
ticable and agreeable to any one: it wvas despicable, she fic.it
to pine sentimentally, -to cherish secret griefs, vain memnories;
to be inert,:to waste youth in aching languor, to grZow old
doing nothing.';  " will bestir myself;" was her:,resolution,' and try to be
wise if I canr not be good.- -
She proceeded to make inquiry of Miss Ainley, if she could
help her in any thing.  Miss Ainley, —glad of an assistant, gtold
oter that she could, and irndicated,:some poor -families ia Briar.
fieli that it was: desirable she should visit; giving her- ikewise




FIELDHEAD.                       167
at her further request, some work to do for certainm poor women
who had many children, and who were unskilled in using the
needle for themselves.
Caroline went home, laid her plans, and took a resolve not
Lo swerve from them. She allotted a certain portion of her
tirie for her various studies, and a certain portion for doing
any thing Miss Ainley might direct her to do; the remainder
was to be spent in exercise; not a moment was to be left fbl
the indulgence of such fevered thoughts as had poisoned last
Sunday evening.
To do her justice, she executed her plans conscientiously,
perseveringly.  It was very hard work at first-it was even
hard work to the end, but it helped her to stem and keep down
anguish: it forced her to be employed; it forbade her to brood;
and gleams of satisfaction checkered her gray life here and
there when she found she had done good, imparted pleasure,
or allayed suffering.
Yet I must speak truth; these efforts brought her neither
health of body nor continued peace of minod: with them all,
she wasted, grew more joyless and more wan; with them all,
her memory kept harping on the name of Robert Moore: au
elegy over the past still rung constantly in her ear; a funereal
inward cry haunted and harassed her: the heaviness of a
broken spirit, and of pining and palsying faculties, settled slow
on her buoyant youth.  Winter seemed conquering her spring:
the mind's soil and its treasures were freezing gradually to
barren stagnation.
CIHAPTERI X
FIELDHEAD.
Y~T Caroline refused tamely to stu-cumb: she had native
strength in her girl's heart, and she used it.  Men and women
never struggle so hard as when they struggle alone, without
witness, counselor, or confidant; unencouraged, unadvised, and
unpitied.
Mliss Helstone was in this position  IHer stlffrings wvre
H



168                   SHIRLEY.
her only spur; and being very real and sharp, they roused heI
spirit keenly. Bent on victory over a mortal pain, she did hei
best to quell it.: Ne ver had she been seen so busy, so studious,
and, above all, so active.  She took walks in all weatherslong walis in solitary directions.  Day by day she came back
in the evening, pale and wearied-looking, yet seemingly not
fatigued; for still, as soon as she had thrown off her bonnet
and shawl, she would, instead of resting, begin to pace her
apartment: sometimes she would not sit down till she was
literally faint.  She said she did this to tire herself well, that
she might sleep soundly at night. But if that was her aim
it was unattained, for at night, when others slumbered, she
was tossing on her pillow, or sitting at the foot of her couch
in the darkness, forgetful, apparently, of the necessity of seeking
repose.  Often, unhappy girl! she was crying-crying in a
sort of intolerable despair; which,' when it rushed over her,
smote down her strength, and reduced her to childlike helplessness.
When thus prostrate, temptations besieged her: weak sug
gestions whispered in her weary heart to write to Robert, and
sa.y that she was unhappy because she was forbidden to see
him  and Hortense, and that she febared he would withdraw
his friendship (not love) firom her, and forget her entirely, and
begging him to remember her and, sometimes, to write to her.
One or two such letters she actually indited, but she never
sent them: shame and good sense forbade.
At last the life she led reached the point when it seemed
she could bear it no lonrLger; that she must seek and find a
change somehow, or her heart and head would fail under the
pressure which strained them. She longed to leave Briarfield,
to go to some very distant place.  She longed for something
else: the deep, secret, anxious yearning to discover and know
her mother strengthened daily; but with the desire was
coupled a doubt, a dread-if she knew her, could she love her?
There was cause for hesitation, for apprehension on this point:
never in her life had she heard that mother praised: whoever
mentioned her, mentioned her coolly. Her uncle seemed to
regard his sister-in-law with a sort of tacit antipathy; an old
servant, who had lived with Mrs. James Helstone fbr a short
time after her marriage, whenever she referred to her former
mistress, spoke with chilling reserve: sometimes she cal]el








~~~~~~ji —-                     --- -
FIELDHE tD  IIhLL.




FIE L D HEAD.                    169
her "cqueer," sometimes she said she did nlot understand her.
These expressions were ice to the daughter's heart; they sulgtested the conclusion that it was, perhaps, better never to
know her parent, than to know her and not lilke her.
But one project could she frame whose execution scemed
likely to bring her a hope of relief; it was to take a situation,
to be a governess-she could do nothing else. A little incident brought her to the point, when she found courage to
break her design to her uncle.
Her.long and late walks lay always, as has been said, on
lonely roads; but in whatever direction she had rambled,
whether along the drear skirts of Stilbro' Moor, or over the
sunny stretch of Nunnely Common, her homeward path was
still so contrived as to lead her near the Hollow.  She rarely
descended the den, but she visited its brink at twilight almost
as regularly as the stars rose over the hill-crests.  Her restingplace was at a certain stile under a certain old thorn: thence
she could look down on the cottage, the mill, the dewy gardenground, the still, deep dam; thence was visible the well-known
counting-house window, from whose panes at a fixed hour shot,
suddenly bright, the ray of the well-known lamp.  Her errand
was to watch for this ray: her reward to catch it, sometimes
sparkling bright in clear air, sometimes shimmering dim
through mist, and anon flashing broken between slant lines
of rain-for she came in all weathers.
There were nights when it failed to appear: she kinew then
that Robert was from  home, and went away doubly sad;
whereas its kindling rendered her elate, as though she saw in
it the promise of some indefinite hope.  If, while she gazed, a
shadow bent between the light and lattice, her heart leaped
— that eclipse was Robert: she had seen him.  She would
return home comforted, carrying in her mind a clearer vision
of his aspect, a distincter recollection of his voice, his smile,
his bearing; and, blent with these impressions, was often a
sweet persuasion that, if she could get near him, his heart
might welcome her presence yet: that at this moment he
might be willing to extend his hand and draw her to hirm,
and shelter her at his side as he used to do.  That night,
though she might weep as usual, she would fancy her tears
less scalding; the pillow they watered seemed a little softer;
the temples pressed to that pillow ached less.




170                   SHIRLEY.
The shortest path from the Hollow to the rectory wound
near a certain mansion, the same under whose lone walls Malone passed on that night-journey mentioned in an early chapter of this work-the old and tenantless dwelling yclept Fieldhead. Tenantless by the proprietor it had been for ten years:
but it was no ruin: Mr. Yorke had seen it kept in good repair, and an{ olUdgardener and his wife had lived in it, cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in habitable
condition.
If Fieldhead had few other merits as a building, it might,
at least, be termed picturesque: its irregular architecture, and
the gray and mossy coloring communicated by time, gave it
a just claim to this epithet.  The old latticed windows, the
stone porch, the walls, the roof, the chimney-stacks, were rich
in crayon touches and sepia lights and shades.  The trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading; the cedar on the lawn in
front was grand, and the granite urns on the garden wall, the
fretted arch of the gateway, were, for an artist, as the very
desire of the eye.
One mild May evening, Caroline passing near, about moonrise, and feeling, though weary, unwilling yet to go home,
where thee was on ththe bedre was only the bed ofthorns and the night of grief
to anticipate, sat down on the mossy ground near the gate,
and gazed through toward cedar and mansion. It was a still
night-calm, dewy, cloudless: the gables, turned to the west,
reflected the clear amber of the horizon they faced; the oaks
behind were black; the cedar was blacker; under its dense,
raven boughs a glimpse of slay opened gravely blue: it was
full of the moon, which looked soleninly and mildly down on
Caroline from beneath that somber canopy.
She felt this night and prospect mournfilly lovely.  She
wished she could be happy: she wished she could know inward
peace: she wondered Providence had no pity on her, and
would not help or console her.  Recollections of happy trystes
of lovers, commemorated in old ballads, returned on her mind:
she thought such tryste in such scene would be' blissful.
Where now was Robert? she asked: not at the Hollow: she
had watched for his lamp long, and had not seen it. She
questioned within herself whether she and Moore were ever
destined to meet and speak again.  Suddenly the door within
the stone porch of the hall opened, anda two men came out:




FIELD H EAD.                    171
onut elierlv and white-headed, the other young, dark-haired,
and tall.'.They passed across the lawn, out through a portal
in the garden wall: Caroline saw them cross the road, pass
the stile, descend the fields; she saw them disappear.  Robert
Moore had passed before her with his friend Mr. Yorke:
neither had seen her.
The apparition had been transient-scarce seen ere gone;
but its electric passage left her veins kindled, her scul insurgent.  It found her despairing: it left her desperate-two
different states.
" Oh! had he but been alone! Had he but seen me!" was
her cry, "he would have said something: he would have
given me his hand. He does, he must love me a little; he
would have shown some token of affection: in his eye, on
his lips, I should have read comfort: but the chance is lost.
The wind-the cloud's shadow does not pass more silently,
more emptily than he. I have been mocked, and Heaven is
cruel'
Thus, in the utter sickness of longing  and disappointment,
she went home.
The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared, white
cheeked and miserable-looking as one who had seen a ghost,
she inquired of Mr. Helstone"Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiring for a situation' innd faimily?"
Her uncle, ignorant as the table supporting his coflee-cup
of all his niece had undergone and was undergoing, scarcely
believed his ears.
" What whim now?" he asked.  "Are you bewitched I
What can you mean 2"
" I am not well, and need a change," she said.
He examined her. He discovered she had experienzced a
change, at any rate'. Without his being aware of it, the rose
had dwindled and faded to a mere snowdrop: bloom had vanished, flesh wasted; she sat befobre him drooping, colcrless, and
thin. But for the soft expression of her brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance of her
hair, she would no longer have possessed a claim to the epithet
-pretty.
"aWhat on earth is the matter with you?" he asked:
"What is wrong?  How are you ailing?"'




172                  SH IRLEY.
[No answer, only the brown eyes filled, the falintly-tinted
lips trembled.
"Look out for a situation, indeed! Foi what situation are
you fit?  WVhat have you been doing with yourself'?  You
are not wvell."
"I should be well if I went from home."
"These womenl are incomprehensible.  T' ey have the
strangest knack of startling you with unpleasant surprises.
To-day you see them bouncing, buxom, red as cherries, and
round as apples; to-morrow they exhibit themselves effete as
dead weeds, blanched and broken down. And the reason of
it all? that's the puzzle. She has her meals, her liberty, a
good house to live in, and good clothes to wear as usual: a
while since that sufficed to keep her handsome and cheery,
and there she sits now a poor little pale, puling, chit enough.
Provoking! Then comes the question, what is to be done' 
I suppose I must send for advice. Will you have a doctor,
child?"
"No, uncle; I don't want one: a doctor could do me no
good. I merely want change of air and scene."
" Well, if' that be the caprice it shall be gratified. You
shall go to a watering-place: I don't mind the expense:
Fanny shall accompany you."' But, uncle, some day I must do something for myself: I
have no fortune.  I had better begin now."
"While I live, you shall not turn out as a governess, Caroline. I will not have it said that my niece is a governess."
"But the later inl life one makes a change of that sort,
uncle, the more difficult and painful it is. I should wish to
get accustomed to the yoke before any habits of ease and independence are formed."
"I beg you will not harass me, Caroline.  I mean to pro.
vide for you. I have always meant to provide for you: I
will purchase an annuity.  Bless me! I am but fifty-five;
my health and constitution are excellent: there is plenty of
time to save and take measures. Don't make yourself anxious
respecting the future: is that what frets you?"
"No, uncle; but I long for a change."
He laughed.  "There speaks the woman!" cried he, " the
very woman! A change! a change!  Always fantastical
and whimsical! WMell, it's in her sex."




FI E L D HI E A D.               173
" But it is not fantasy and whiln, uncle."
"What is it then?"
"Necessity, I think,  I feel weaker than formerly. 1
believe I should have more to do."
"Admirable! She feels weak, and theperefoie she should tbe
set to hard labor-' clair comme le jour'-as Moore-confobund
Moore! You shall go to Cliff:bridge; aiid there are two
guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary, never fear; we'll
find balm in Gilead."
"Uncle, I wish you were less generous, and more —"
" More what?"
Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but it was
not uttered: she checked herself in time: her uncle would,
indeed, have laughed if that namby-pamby word had escaped
her.  Finding her silent, he said" The fact is, you don't know precisely what you want."' Only to be a governess."
"Pooh! mere nonsense!  I'll not hear of governessing.
Don't mention it again.  It is rather too feminine a fancy.  I
have finished breakfast, ring the bell: put all crotchets out
of your head and run away and amuse yourself."
" What with?  My doll?" asked Caroline to herself as she
quitted the room.
A  week or two passed; her bodily and mental health
neither grew worse nor better.  She was now precisely in
that state, when, if her constitution had contained the seeds of
consumption, decline or slow fever, those diseases wvould have
been rapidly developed, and would soon have carried her quietly from the world.  People never die of love or grief alone;
though some die of inherent maladies, which the tortures of
those passions prematurely force into destructive action.  The
sound by nature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken,
shattered: their beauty and bloom perish, but life remaint
untouched.  They are brought to a certain point of dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility, and emaciation.
People think, as they see them gliding languidly about, that
they will soon withdraw to sick-beds, perish there, and cease
from among the healthy and happy. This does not happen:
they live on; and though they can not regain youth and
gayety, they may regain strength and serenity.  The blossom
which the March wind nips, but fails to sweep away, may




174                   SHIRLEY.
survive to hang a withered apple on the tr(e late in to autumn:
having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the
first of winter.
Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and most people said she was going to die. She never
thought so herself: she felt in no dying case; she had neither
pain nor sickness. Her appetite was diminished; she knew
the reason: it was because she wept so much at night.  Her
strength was lessened; she could account for it: sleep was
coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful.
In the far future she still seemed to anticipate a time when
this passage of misery should be got over, and when she should
once more be calm, though, perhaps, never again happy.
Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit; to comply with
the frequent invitations of their acquaintance: this she evaded
doing; she could not be cheerful in company: she felt she
was observed there with more curiosity than sympathy. Old
ladies were always offering her their advice, recommending
this or that nostrum; youngf ladies looked at her in a way she
understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they
knew she had been " disappointed," as custom phrases it: by
whom, they were not certain.
Common-place young ladies can be quite as hard as com
mon-place young gentlemen-quite as worldly and selfish.
Those who suffer should always avoid them; grief and calamity they despise: they seem to regard them as the judgments of God on the lowly. WVith them to " love" is merely
to contrive a scheme for achieving a good match: to be " disappointed" is to have their scheme seen through and frustrated.'They think the feelings and projects of others on the subject
o' love, similar to their own, and judge them accordingly.
All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly by observation: she regulated her conduct by her knowledge, keeping
her pale face and wasted figure as much out of sight as she
could. Living thus in complete seclusion, she ceased to receive intelligence cf the little transactions of the neighborhood.
One morning her uncle came into the parlor, where she sat
endeavoring to find some pleasure in painting a little group of
wild flowers, gathered under a hedge at the top of the Hollow
fields, and said to her, in his abrupt manner"Come, child, you are always stooping over pallet.,l




FIE LDHEAD.                    175
bo)k, or sampler: leave that tinting work. By-the-by, do
you put your pencil to your lips when you paint?"
"Sometimes, uncle, when I forget."
"Then it is that which is poisoning you. The paints are
deleterious, child: there is white lead, and red lead, and verdigris, and gamboge, and twenty other poisons in those color
cakes. Lock them up! lock them up! Get your bonnet oni:
I want you to make a call with me."
" With you, uncle?"
This question was asked in a tone of surprise.  She was
not accustomed to make calls with her uncle: she never rode
or walked out with him on any occasion.
"Quick! quick! I am always busy, you know: I have
no time to lose."
She hurriedly gathered up her materials, asking: meantime,
where they were going.
" To Fieldhead."
"Fieldhead! What, to see old James Booth, the gardener?
Is he ill?"
"We are going to see Miss Shirley Kleeldar."
" Miss Keeldar! Is he:come to Yorkshire?  Is she at
Fieldhead?"
" She is. She has been there a week. I met her at a
party last night-that party to which you would not go. I
was pleased with her: I choose that you shall make her acquaintance: it will do you good."
"She is now come of age, I suppose?"
"She is come of age, and will reside for a time on her proporty.  I lectured her on the subject: I showed her her duty:
she is not intractable: she is rather a fine girl; she will teach
you what it is to have a sprightly spirit: nothing lackadaisical
about her."
" I don't think she will want to see me, or to have me introduced to her.  What good can I do her?  How can I amuse
her?"
"Pshaw! Put your bonnet on."
"Is she proud, uncle?"
"Don't know.  You hardly imagine she would show her
pride to me, I suppose? A chit like that would scarcely pre.
sume to give herself airs with the rector of ner parish, howv
ever rich she might be."




176                   S1 I RLEY.
" No —but how did she behave to other people.';
"Didn't observe.  She holds her head high, and probably
can be saucy enough where she dare-she wouldn't be a
woman otherwise.  There-away now fobr your bonnet at
once!":Not naturally very confident, a failure of physical strength
and a depression of spirits had not tended to increase Caroline's presence of mind and ease of manner, or to give her ad
ditional courage to face strangers, and she quailed, in spite of
self:remonstrance, as she and her uncle walked up the broad,
paved approach leading from the gateway of Fieldhead to its
porch. She followed Mr. Helstone reluctantly through that
porch into the somber old vestibule beyond.
Very somber it was; long, vast, and dark: one latticed
window lit it but dimly; the wide old chimney contained now
no fire, for the present warm weather needed it not; it was
filled instead with willow-boughs. The gallery on high, opposite the entrance, was seen but in outline, so shadowy became this hall toward its ceiling; carved stags' heads, with
real antlers, looked down grotesquely from the walls.  This
was neither a grand nor a comfortable house: within as without, it was antique, rambling, and incommodious.  A property
of a thousand a year belonged to it; which property had descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female. There were
mercantile families in the district boasting twice the income,
but the Keeldars, by virtue of their antiquity, and their distinction of lords of the manor, took the precedence of all.
Mr. and Miss Helstone were ushered into a parlor: of
course, as was to be expected in such a Gothic old barrack,
this parlor was lined with oak: fine, dark, glossy panels comrn
passed the walls gloomily and grandly. Very handsome,
reader, these shining, brown panels are: very mellow in coloring and tasteful in effect, but-if you know what a " springclean" is-very execrable and inhuman.  Whoever, having
the bowels of humanity, has seen servants scrubbing at these
polished wooden walls with bees-waxed cloths on a warm May
day, must allow that they are "tolerable and not to be endured;" and I can not but secretly applaud the benevolent
barbarian who had painted another and larger apartment of
Fieldhead-the drawing-room to-wit, formerly also an oak
rooy —of a delicate pinky white; thereby earning for hinisel




FIELDHE  D.                      177
the character of' a ilnn, but mightily enhancing the cheorfiul.
ness of that portion of his abode, and saving future housemaids
a; world of' toil.
The brown-paneled parlor was furnished all in old style,
and with real old furniture. On each side the high mantle.
piece stood two antique chairs of oak, solid as sylvan thrones,
and in one of these sat a lady.  But if this were Miss Keeldar, she must have come of age at least some twenty years
ago: she was of matronly form, and though she wore no cap,
and possessed hair of quite an undimmed auburn, shading small
and naturally young-looking features, she had no youthful aslect, nor apparently the wish to assume it.  You could have
wished her attire of' a newer fashion: in a well-cut, well-made
gown, hers would have been no uncomnely presence. It puzzled you to guess why a garment of handsome materials should
be arranged in such scanty folds, and devised after such an
obsolete mode: you felt disposed to set down the wearer as
somewhat eccentric at once.
This lady received the visitors with a mixture of ceremony
and diffidence quite English: no middle-aged matron who
was not an Englishwoman could evince precisely the same
manner; a manner so uncertain of herself, of her own merits,
of' her power to please; and yet so anxious to be proper, anrid.
if possible, rather agreeable than otherwise. In the present instance, however, more embarrassment was shown than is usual
even with diffident Englishwomenl: Miss H-lelstone felt this,
sympathized with the stranger, and, knowing by experience
what was good for the timid, took a seat quietly near her, and
began to talk to her with a gentle ease, communicated for the
moment by the presence of one less self-possessed than herself.
She and this lady would, if alone, have at once got on extrernely well together. The lady had the clearest voice imaginable: infinitely softer and more tuneful than could have
been reasonably expected from forty years, and a form decidedly inclined to embonpoint.  This voice Caroline liked; it
atoned for the formal, if' correct, accent and language: the:ady would soon have discovered she liked it and her, and in
ten minutes they would have been friends. But Mr. Helstone
stood on the rug, looking at them both; looking-especially at
the strange lady with his sarcastic, keen eye, that clearly expressed impatience of her chilly ceremony, and annoyance at




178                   SITIRLEY.
her want of aplomb6.  His hard gaze and rasping voice disco] t
fited the lady more and more; she tried, however, to get lfy.
little speeches about the weather, the aspect of the country
&c., but the impracticable Mr. Helstone presently found himself somewhat deaf: whatever she said, he affeicted not to
hear distinctly, and she was obliged to go over each elaborately constructed nothing twice. The effort soon became too
much for her; she was just rising in a perplexed flutter, nervously murmuring that she knew not what detained Miss
Keeldar-that she would go and look for her, when Miss
Keeldar saved her the trouble by appearing: it was to be
presumed, at least, that she who now came in through a glassdoor from the garden owned that name.
There is real grace in ease of manner, and so old Helstonn,
felt when an erect, slight girl walked up to him, retaining
with her left hand her little silk apron full of flowers, and,
giving him her right hand, said pleasantly" I knew you would come to see me, though you do think
Mr. Yorke has made me a Jacobin.  Good-morning."
4' But we'll not have you a Jacobin," returned he.  " No,
Miss Shirley, they shall not steal the flower of my parish firom
mne: now that you are among us, you shall be my pupil in
politics and religion: I'll teach you sound doctrine on both
points."
"Mrs. Pryor has anticipated you," she replied, turning to
the elder lady.  "Mrs. Pryor, you know, was my governess,
and is still my friend; and of all the high and rigid tories, she
is queen; of all the stanch churchwomen, she is chief. I have
been well drilled both in theology and history, I assure you,
Mr. Helstone..
The rector immediately bowed very low to Mrs. Pryor, and
expressed himself obliged to her.
The ex-governess disclaimed skill in either political or religious controversy, explained that she thought such matters
little adapted for female minds, but avowed herself in general
terms the advocate of order and loyalty, and, of course, truly
attached to the Establishment.  She added, she was evei
averse to change under any circumstances; and something
scarcely audible about the extreme danger of being too ready
to take up new ideas, closed her sentence.
" Miss Keeldar thinks as you think, I hope, madam."




FI EL D IE.AD.                  179
"Difference of age and difference of tenmperanlcnt occasiori
difference of sentiment," was the reply.  "It can scarcely be
expected that the eager and young should hold the opinions
of the cool and middle-aged."
"Oh! ohl! we are independent: we think for ourselves!"
cried Mr. HIelstone.  " We are a little Jacobin, for any thing
I know: a little free-thinker, in good earnest.  Let us have
a confession of faith on the spot."
And he took the heiress's two hands-causing her to let fall
her whole caigo of flowers-and seated her by him on the sofa
" Say your creed," he ordered.
" The Apostles' Creed 1"
C Yes."
She said it like a child.
" Now for St. Athanasius's: that's the test!"
" Let me gather up my flowers: here is Tartar coming, he
will tread upon them."
Tartar was a rather large, strong, and fierce-looking dog,
very ugly, being of a breed between mastiff and bull-dog, who
at this imoment entered through the glass door, and posting
directly to the rug, snuffed the fresh flowers scattered there.
fIe seemed to scorn them as food; but probably thinking their
velvety petals might be convenient as litter, he was turning
round preparatory to depositing his tawny bulk upon them,
when.Miss Helstone and Miss Keeldar simultaneously stooped
to the rescue.
"Thank you," said the heiress, as she again held out her
little apron for Caroline to heap the blossoms into it.  "Is
this your daughter, Mr. Helstone?" she asked.
" My niece, Caroline."
Miss Keeldar shook hands with her, anl then looked at her
Caroline also looked at her hostess.
Shirley Keeldar (she had no Christian name but Shirley:
her parents, who had wished to have a son, finding that, after
eight years of marriage, Providence had granted them only a
daughter, bestowed on her the same masculine family cognomen they would have bestowed on a boy, if with a boy they
halvd been blessed)-Shirley Keeldar was ino ugly heiress: she
was agreeable to the eve.  Her height and shape were not
unlike Miss Helstone's: perhaps in stature she might have
the advantage by an inch or two; she was gracefully made,




180                    SHIRLEY.
and her face, too, possessed a charm as well described by the
word grace as any other.  It was pale naturally, but intelli.
gent, anild of varied expression.  She was not a blonde, like
Caroline: clear and dark were the characteristics of her aspect
as to color: her face and brow were clear, her eyes of the
darkest gray: no green lights in them-transparent, pure,
neutral -gray; and her hair of the darkest brown.  Her features were distinguished; by which I do not mean that they
were high, bony, and Roman, being, indeed, rather small and
slightly marked than otherwise, but only that they were, to
use a few French words, "fins, gracieux, spirituels:" mobile
they were and speaking; but their changes were not to be
junderstood, nor their language interpreted all at once.  She
examined Caroline seriously, inclining her head a lttl], to one
side, with a thoughtful air.
" You see she is only a feeble chick," observed Mr. Helstone.'She looks young —younger than 1. How old are you ll"
she inquired, in a manner that would have been patronizing
if it had not been extremely solemn and simple.
"Eighteen years and six months."
"And I am twenty-one."
She said no more; she had now placed her flowers on the
table, and was busied in arranging them.
"And St. Athanasius's creed?" urged the rector; "vou
believe it all-don't you?"
" I can't remember it quite all. I will give you a nosegay,
Mr. Ielstone, when I have given your niece one."
She had selected a little bouquet of one brilliant, and two
or three delicate flowers, relieved by a spray of dark verdure:
she tied it with silk from her work-box, and placed it on Caioline's lap; and then she put her hands behind her, and stood,
bending slightly toward her guest, still regarding her, in the
attitude and with something of the aspect of a grave but gallant little cavalier. This temporary expression of face was
aided by the style in which she wore her hair, parted on one
temple and brushed in a glossy sweep above the forehead.
whence it fell in curls that looked natural, so fiee were their
wavy undulations.
" Are you tired with your walk.?" she ianq.Tired.
" No —not in the least; it is but a short ditlr-r. — 1it;
mile."




FIELDHEAD.                       181
"You look pale.  Is she always so pale?".ae asked, turning to the rector.
" She used to be as rosy as the reddest of your flowers."
" Why is she altered?  What has made her pale?  -as
she been ill?"
"She tells me she wants a change."
"She ought to have one: you ought to give her one: you
should send her to the sea-coast."
"I will, ere summer is over. MIeantime, I intend her to
make acquaintance with you, if you have no objection."
" I am sure Miss Keeldar will have no objection," here observed Mrs. Pryor.  "I think I may take it upon nce to say
that Miss Helstone's frequent presence at Fieldhead will be
esteemed a favor."
" You speak my sentiments precisely, ma'am," said Shirley,
" and I thank you for anticipating Ine.  Let me tell you,"
she continued, turning again to Caroline, " that you also ought
to thank my governess; it is not every one she would welorrle
as she has welcomed you: you are distinguished more than
you think.  This morning, as soon as you are gone, I shall
ask Mrs. Pryor's opinion of you. I am apt to rely on her
judgment of character, for hitherto I have found it wondrous
accurate. Already I foresee a favorable answer to my inquiries: do I not guess rightly, LIrs. Pryor?"
"My dear-you said but now you would ask my opinion
when Miss Helstone was gone; I am scarcely likely to give it
in her presence."
" No-and perhaps it will be long enough before I obtain
it.  I am sometimes sadly tantalized, MIr. I-elstone, by Mrs.
Pryor's extreme caution: her judgments ought to be correct
when they come, for they are often as tardy of delivery as a
lord-chancellor's: on some people's characters I can not get
her to pronounce sentence, entreat as I may."
IMrs. Pryor here smiled.
" Yes," said her pupil, " I know what that smile means:
you are thinking of my:cgentleman-tenant.  Do you know Mr.
M5Toore of the Hollow 2" she asked Mr. Helstone.
" Ay! ay! your tenant-so he is: you:'ave seen a good
deal of him, no doubt, since you came?"
"I have been obhiged to see him: there was business to
transact.  Business' 1Really the word makes me conscious I




SHIRLE Y.
am indeed no longer a girl, but quite a woman, and scletling
more. I am an esquire' Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to
be my style and title.  They gave me a man's name; I hold
a man's position: it is enough to inspire me with a touch of
manhood; and when I see such people as that stately AngloBelgian-that Gerard Moore before me, gravely talking to me
of business, really I feel quite gentlemanlike.  You must
choose me for your churchwarden, Mr..Helstone, the next
time you elect new ones: they ought to make me a magistrate
and a captain of yeomanry: Tony Lumpkin's mother was a
colonel, and his aunt a justice of the peace-why shouldn't I
be?"
" With all my heart. If you choose to get up a requisition
on the subject, I promise to head the list of signatures with
my name.  But you were speaking of Moore?"
"Ah! yes. I find it a little difficult to understand Mr.
MIoore-to know what to think of him: whether to like him
or not. He seems a tenant of whom any proprietor might be
proud-and proud of him I am, in that sense-but as a neighbor, what is he?  Again and again I have entreated Mrs
Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still evades re,
turning a direct answer.  I hope you will be less oracular, Mr
HIelstone, and pronounce at once: do you like hin 2"
" Not at all, just now: his name is entirely blotted fiom
my good books."'" What is the matter?  What has he done'"'
" My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low
voice of Caroline. She had better not have spoken just then:
having scarcely joined in the conversation before, it was not
apropos to do it now: she felt this, with nervous acuteness.
as soon as she had spoken, and colored to the eyes.
"What are Moore's.politics?" inquired Shirley.
"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector; "narrow,
selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and
speaking against the continuance of the war: I have no patience with him."
" The war hurts his trade..1 remember he remarked that
only yesterday. But what other objection have you to him?"
"That is enough."
IIe looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term," pursued
Shirley, " and it pleases me to think he is such."




F I E  DHEAD.                   183
Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant flower
in her bouquet, and answered, in distinct tones —" Decidedly
lihe is."  Shirley hearing this courageous affirmation, flashed
an arch, searching glance at the speaker "rom her deep, ex
pressive eyes.
" Yoz are his friend, at any rate," she said; "you defend
him in his absence."
"I am both his friend and his relative," was the prompt
reply. " Robert Moore is my cousin."
" Oh, then, you can tell me all about him. Just give rue
a sketch of his character."
Insuperable embarrassment seized Caroline when this de.
mand was made: she could not, and did not attempt to comply
with it.  Her silence was immediately covered by Mrs. Pryor,
who proceeded to address sundry questions to Mr. Helstone
regarding a family or two in the neighborhood, with whose
connections in the south she said she was acquainted. Shirley
soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone's face. She did
not renew her interrogations, but returning to her flowers,
proceeded to choose a nosegay for the rector.  She presented
it to him as he took leave, and received the homage of a salute
on the hand in return.' Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she.
"Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone.  "Mrs.
Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this churchwarden
in perspective, this captain of Yeomanry, this young squire of
Briarfield, in a word: don't let him exert himself too much:
don't let him break his neck in hunting: especially, let him
mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near the Hollow."
" I like a descent," said Shirley-" I like to clear it rapidly;
and especially I like that romantic Hollow, w.th all my heart."
R' omantic -with a mill in it?"
" Romantic with a mill in it.  The old mill and the white
cottage are each admirable in its way."
"And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar?"
"The counting-house is better than my bloorn-colored drawmng-room: I adore the counting-house."
"And the trade? The cloth-the greasy wool —the polluting dyeing-vats?"
"The trade is to be thoroughly respected."
"And the tradesman is a hero?  Good!"




184                   SHIRLEY.
I'  am glad to hear you say so: I thought the tradesman
looked heroic."
Mischief, spirit, and glee sparkled all over her face as she
thus bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally
enjoyed the tilt.
c" Captain Keeldar, you have no mercantile blood in your
veins: why are you so fond of trade?"
" Because I am a mill-owner, of course.  Half my income
comes from the works in that Hollow."
" Don't enter into partnership, that's all."
" You've put it into my head! you've put it into my head!"
she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh.  "It will never get out:
thank you."  And waving her hand, white as a lily and fine
as a fairy's, she vanished within the porch, while the rector
and his niece passed out through the arched gateway.
CHAPTER XI1.
SIIRLF,Y AND CAROLINE.
SHIRLEY showed she had been sincere in saying she should
be glad of Caroline's society, by frequently seeking it: and,
indeed, if she had not sought it, she would not have had it;
for Miss Helstone was slow to make fresh acquaintance.  She
was always held back by the idea that people could not want
her: that she could not amuse them;;and a briIliant, happy,
youthful creature, like the heiress of Fieldhead, seemed to hei
too completely independent of society so uninteresting as hers,
ever to findl it really welcome.
Shirley might be brilliant, and probably happy likewise,
but no one is independent of genial society; and though in
about a month she had made the acquaintance of most of the
families round, and was on quite free and easy terms with all
the Misses Sykes, and all the Misses Pearson, and the two
superlative Misses 5Wynne, of WValden Hall; yet, it appeared,
she found none among them very genial: she fraternized with
nonie of them, to use her own words.  If she&had had the blis.




SHIIKLEY AND (CAkOLINE.                185
to be really Shirley Keeldar, Esq., Lord of the Manor of Briarfield, there was not a single fair one in this and the two
neighboring parishes, whom she should have felt disposed to
request to become Mrs. Keeldar, lady of the manor.  This
declaration she made to Mrs. Pryor, who received it very
quietly, as she did most of her pupil's off-hand speeches, re,.
sponding"My dear, do not allow that habit of alluding to yourself
as a gentleman to be confirmedi it is a strange oiie...Those
who do not know you, hearing you speak thus would think
you affected masculine manners."
Shirley never laughed at her former governess: even the
little formalities and harmless peculiarities of that lady were
respectable in her eyes: had it been otherwise, she would
have proved herself a weak character at once; for it is only
the weak who make a butt of quiet worth; therefore slhe took
her remonstrance in silence.  She stood quietly near the ~win
dow, looking at the grand cedar on her lawn, watching a bird
on one of its lower boughs. Presently she began to chirrup to
the bird: soon her chirrup grew clearer; ere long she was
whistling; the whistle struck into a tune, and very sweetly
and deftly it was executed.
"My dear " expostulated Mrs. Pryor.
W ~7as I whistling?" said Shirley; " I forgot. I beg your
pardon, ma'am.  I had resolved to take care not to whistle
befobre vou."
"But, Miss Keeldar, where did you learn to whistle?  You
must have got the habit since you came down into Yorkshire.
I never knew you guilty of it before."
"Oh' I learned to whistle a long, while ago."
W Nho taught you?"
"No one: I took it up by listening, and I had laid it down
again; but lately, yesterday evening, as I was coming up our
lane, I heard a gentleman whistling that very tune in the
field on the other side of the hedge, and that reminded me."
"What gentleman was it?"
"'We have only one gentleman in this region, ma'am, and
that is Mr. Moore; at least he is the only gentleman who is
not gray haired: my two venerable favorites, Mr. Helstone
atid Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fine old beaux; infinitely better
than any cf the stupid young ones."




186                   SHIRLEY.
~Mrs. Pryor was silent.
"You do not like Mr. Helstone, ina'a.m?"
" My dear, Mr. Hlelstone's office secures him from criticism."
" You generally contrive to leave the room when he is announced."
"Do you walk out this morning, my dear?"
"'Yes, I shall go to the rectory, and seek and find Caroline
Hlelstone, and make her take some exercise: she shall have a
breezy'walk over Nunnely Common."
" If you go in that direction, my dear, have the goodness to
remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh
wind, and she appears to me to require care."
"You shall be minutely obeyed, Mrs. Pryor: meantime,
will you not accompany us yourself?"
"No, my love; I should be a restraint upon you: I am
stout, and can not walk so quickly as you would wish to do."
Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her; and when
they were fairly out on the quiet road, traversing the extensive
and solitary sweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew
ner into conversation.  The first feelings of diffidence overcome, Caroline soon felt glad to talk with Miss Keeldar.  The
very first interchange of slight observations sufficed to give
each an idea of what the other was. Shirley said she liked
the green sweep of the common turf, and, better still, the heath
on its ridges, for the heath reminded her of moors: she had
seen moors when she was traveling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered particularly a district traversed one
long afternoon, on a sultry, but sunless day in summer: they
journeyed from noon till sunset, over what seemed a boundless
waste of deep heath, and nothing had they seen but wild
sheep; nothing heard but the cries of wild birds.
" I know how the heath would look on such a day," said
Caroline;" purple-black: a deeper shade of the sky-tint, and
that would be livid."
"Yes-quite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and
here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid
tinge, which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected
would kindle into blinding lightning."
"Did it thunder?"
" It muttered distant peals, but the storm did not break till




SHIRLEY AND CAROLINE.                  187
evening, after we had reached our inn: tlhat inn being ar
isolated house at the foot of a range of mountains."
" Did you watch the clouds come down over the mountains?"
"I did: I stood at the window an hour watching them.
The hills seemed rolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain
fell in whitening sheets, suddenly they were blotted from the
prospect: they were washed from the world."
"I have seen such storms in hilly districts in Yorkshire;
and at their riotous climax, while the sky was all cataract,
the earth all flood, I have remembered the Deluge."
"It is singularly reviving after such hurricanes to feel calm
return, and from the opening clouds to receive a consolatory
gleam, softly testifying that the sun is not quenched."
" Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look down at Nutl
nely dale and wood."
They both halted on the green brow of the common: they
looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment; onl
varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with
king-cups: to-day all this young verdure smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams played over it.
On Nunnwood-the sole remnant of antique British forest in
a region whose lowlands were once all sylvan chase, as its
highlands were breast-deep heather-slept the shadow of a
cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded
and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples,
evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of
white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with a
remote glimpse of heaven's foundations.  The air blowing on
the brow was fresh, and sweet, and bracing.
" Our England is a bonnie island," said Shirli y, "and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks."
"You are a Yorkshire girl too?"
"I am —Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations
of my race sleep under the aisles of Briarfield church: I drew
my first breath in the old black hall behind us."
Hereupon Caroline presented her hand, which was accord.
ingly taken and shaken.  " We are compatriots," said she
"Yes," agreed Shirley, with a grave nod.
"And that," asked Miss Keeldar, pointing to the forest
"that is Nunnwood?"
"'It is."




138                   SJ I JIILEY.
" Were you ever there'"
"Many a time."
" In the heart of it."
" Yes."
"What is it like 3"
"It is lilke an encampment of forest scns of.Anak. The
trees are huge and old.  When you stand at their roots, the
summits seem in another region: the trunks remain still and
firm as pillars, while the boughs sway to every breeze.  In
the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed, and in
high wind a flood rushes-a sea thunders above you."'" Was it not one of Robin Hood's haunts?"
"Yes, and there are mementoes of him still existing   To
penetrate into Nunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back into
the dim days of eld.  Can you see a break in the forest, about
the center 3"
"Yes, distinctly."
"That break is a dell; a deep, hollow cup, lined witht turf
as green and short as the sod of this common; the very oldest
of the trees, gnarled, mighty oaks, crowd about the brink of
this dell: in the bottom lie the ruins of a nunnery."
" -— W.. "e will go-you and I alone, Caroline —to that wood,
early some fine summer morning, and spend a long day there.'VWe can take pencils and sketch-books, and any interesting
reading-book we like; and of course we shall take something
to eat.  I have two little baskets, in which Mrs. Gill, my
housekeeper, might pack our provisions, and we could each
carry our own. It would not tire you too much to walk so
far?"
" Oh, no; especially if we rested the whole day in the wood,
and I know all the pleasantest spots: I know where we could
get nuts in nutting time; I know where wild strawberries
abound; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some yellow as if gilded, some a
sober gray, some gem-green. I know groups of trees that
ravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like effects: rude
oak, delicate birch, glossy beech, clustered in contrast; and
ash trees stately as Saul, standing isolated, and superannuated
wood-giants clad in bright shrouds of ivy.  Miss Keeldar, I
could guide you.":' You would be dull with me alone?"




S.i II It L, Et,.A IN D CAR R O   IT. N. I.
1.   o ldti lot. 1. ithitk we should  sit  andt! vhat thirl
person  is there -whoset presec  ould not spoil oulr pleasure?"''  rIdeed, I know of nonI.e about ouir oin aesi —no lady at
least, aniLd as to,enleetlern —"
A'.n  excursola becomes quite a dil:renlit thing wifhen there
ar e gentlrneiIe of' tlhe part," iitelrruptel Careoline.
I  agree wNith youn*-quite a ditlbrent thiilg  to whaSt wc
were p     roposing."
c':'e were o,'lue siti)i! y to sce the old trees, 1the olC ruins;
to pass a day il_ ol.d times, sturrounded by oldent siilence, aid(
above all by cuietude."' You are igilht; iad the Dpreftnieo  of 0genitierael dispels the:
last charm, I think.  fT they are of thIe wrong sort, like your
Malores, andi your yo-ai  Sykes, ated VL'Vnlnes, irritation takes
the placeC of sOtrentl  It    iyley are o' tihe rigIht sort, there is
still a eian eloe-   cai 1itartdly t4ell whaat challJge, oni ieuasy to
e.el, diffieu1t io descr.ebe."
"ve obrget     o.e impilnis."' Andt then \alLure forgets us; covers her- vast, ealin birow
with a dini  vail, conceals ier flio, and withdraws It.!le peaceflt
ioy withl wlih ie f h we  ahld be. ciltut to w     p.ser Only,
she wouldl.1ave filled outr  earts'."
"W haat does she give us instead'!"
"M 2[ore elation andi more canxiety  a art exitemenlht steais
the hours away fast', and a trouble that rmfiles tlheir course."
"Our powere  of b Wing hapny lies at good deal in ourselves, I
bli.evl,    renmarked Car-olile, sagely.  " IL are gone to Nuni'
wood witln a large parrty, a1 the cirates and some other gentry
of these parts, together witil suandry ladies; and I found the
a.fllir i nsuflerably tedious anld A-bsurd: avid I have gone quite
tlone, or accompanied bhit bry  Ian ix, wvho sat in thie Vwood
maans Inut and soewed, or talked to th.e goodwife, while 1
roamned about and made sketches, or read; anld I have -enjoyed
iu-lVull happiness of'a quiet innd all day long.  But that was
xv;iti t was youngtwo yerls ago."
"Did you ever go with your e0o ll,  obe. t ci More?'
Y'Yes; onle."'
"What sort of a conmpanionl is he on these occasions a"'"A. cousin, you know, is different to a stranger."
I:'I am  aware of that; bu t cousins, if they are stupid, aro,til more inlsupportable than strangers, because you caxl nol
-f




190                     I-  R LEY.
so easily keep them  at a distance,  B;ut your cousin is not
stupid?"
6No; but —-"
W' ell?"
"If the com-pany of iools irritates, as you say, the society
of clever men leaves its own peculiar pain also.  Where the
goodness or talent of your friend is beyond and above all doubt,
your own worthiness to be his associate often becomes a matter
of question."
"Oh! there I can not follow you: that crotchet is not one
I should choose to entertain for an instant.  I consider myself
not unworthy to be the associate of the best of thein-of genflemen, I mean: though that is saying a great deal.  Where
they are good, they are very good, I believe.  Your uncle, bythe-by, is not a bad specimen of the elderly gentleman: I ant
always glad to see his bro wn, keen, sensible old face, either in
my own house or an)y other,  A.re you fond of him'  Is he
kind to you?  Now, speak the truth."
" He has brought me up fi'om childhood, I doubt not, precisely as he would have brought up his own daughter, if' he
had had one; and that is lindness; but I am not Ibnd of
him: I would rather be out of his presence than in it."
"Strange! when lhe has the art of Zmaking himself so
agreeable."
" es, in compalny; but be is stern and silent at home.  As
he puts away his cane and shovel-hat in the rectory-hall, so
he locks his liveliness in his bookcase antd study-desk: the
knitted brow and brief word for the fireside; the smile, the
iest, the witty sally, lbr society."
"I' s he tyrannical?"
" Not in the least: he is neither tyrannical nor hypocritical:
he is simply a man who is rather liberal than good-natured,
rather brilliant than genial, rather scrupulously equitable than
truly just; if you can understand such superfine distinctions?"
"Oh! yes: good -nature implies indulgence, which he has
not; geniality, warmth of heart, which he does not own; and
genuine justice is the offspring of sympathy and considerateness, of which, I can well conceive, my, bronzed old friend is
quite innocent."
"1: often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my
uncle, in their domestic relations; whether it:s necessary to




StEIRLEY AND CAROLINE..                191
be new and unlitmiliar to themn, in order to sceem agreeable or
estirnable in their eyes; and whether it is impossible to the';
natures to retain a constant interest and affection for ilhosr
see every day."
"1[ don't know: I can't clear up your doubt,
over similar ones myself sometimes.  But, t o
It' I were convinced that they are necessp
dilifrent from us-=fickle, soon petrifyifr
would never marry.  I should not li'
I loved did not love me, that it v
whatever  eftlrt I might make
worse than useless, since it'
chanuge and become indiffer,
what should. I long for?
presence where my soeie-'" But you could not,
" No, I could notmlifstress more. A ter
ing irks me like the
inevitable burden —
comnppany superfiuol
round me like a r
withdraw to s
"I wolnd
gle," say'
of ex-r
d.en
le:
I'




i 1. 2                   BE-1i I R-t L E Y.
but we watlh lihim, and see him  kid to aniImals, to littPi3
~ hildren, to poor people.!Ie is kind to us likewiSe-g-good. -'9erate: he does llot flatter-women, but lhe is patienl;t with
l- he seems to be easy in thleir presence, and to flud
-:T genial.  I-e likes them  not only for vam and?':It as wte like him —because we like him,,'.t he is just —that he always speaks thel.ie;rntious.  We feel joy and peace when:e fbel sadness and trouble when he. his man has been a kind son, that' one dare to tell rme that he wilt,-'he sitatinglly.'H-e will be
may,.';ate the same."
1 darkly suggest ditto.",ever to ailt in love.'"
ltdy caugh1."
what 8oothsayers o
-'tlho litt le
useC that
a frost
that




H-1IILEY AND  CAROLYINX                       1":ts' Does hie?  It is ot Itoboert'?
"But it its lobert?'
" Handsornc fellow "'said Shirley, with i~nthusiasm   - her
efes sparkled.
"Is he not handsome?  HIas he not fine eyes and well-elu
featurcs, and a clear, princely forehead?"
"HeTo has   tl that, Caroline.  Bless him!  he is both -gyracefai
and good.
-"  was sure yil would s3ee that he was: when I first looked
at your ih e.I lIew you would."
V was werll. incr.lined to hirm beolre I saw him.  I liked him
Mwlhen'  did scec him:    admuire hin  noir.  There is charm
in. beanty for iteli, Caroline;   hien it is blent withll goodness,
there is a powerxifil charm."
" When mind is added, Shiriey''
" -ho can resist it?"
";R-emember riy  uncle, AMesdamnes Pryor, Yorke,  and
"].Remember ithe croakcing  of' the sIro's of Egypt   I Hle is a
noble being.  I tell you wvhen they ar', good, they are the lords
of the  reeation —they are the sonis of God.  Molded in their
Maker's itma e, tthe iminutest sparik of' His spirit lifts them
almost above mortality.  Indisputabl, a great;, good, handeome  an. is thne first of created ithinls."
"Above 1us;  wou-ld scorn to ion:telnd fr;npmir e with himI —  would
eorln it.  SIl i my left han.h di spute for precedence with my
right?.shllu  my heart qiuarrel with my pulse?-shall my
veins Ie jealozs  of' the blood which fills them?"
"M'en ant    women, ihusbands and wives quarrel horribly,
Shirley."
" Poor thinos!-poor, fallen, dfrenerate thi  s   Go-0d made
them for another Tot —fbr other feelings,
[BuIt ale we mnCen'S equals, or are we not?"
"NIOtlhi ng ever chaxms rme more than when I meet my
-suporior-one wl:o makCes me sincerely fbeel that he is may su"Did y-v-o l   ener meet him?'
"I sthould be glad to:see him  any day: the higher above
liet, so mruo3n thaC. better: it degradas to stoop —it is gloriolus to
ltoo up-.    -What  firets me is, that'Pvhen It try to esteem, I ara




1~t4                    SH  RLEY.
bafflled: when religiously inclined, there are but false gods to
adore.  I disdain to be a Paan."
"Miss Keeldar, will you come in? 0We are here at the
retory gates."
" Not to&day; but to-morrow I shall fetch you to spend the
evening with me.  Caroline Helstone-if you really are what
at present to me you seem-rayou and I will suit.  I have never
in mny'whole life been able to talk to a young lady as I have
talked to you this morning.  Kiss me-and good-by."'
Mrs. Pryor seemed as well-disposed to cultivate Caroline's
acequaintance as Shirlev   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 seemea
fluttered, too, by the circumstance of entering a strainge house;
for it appeared her habits were most retiring and secluded
When MIiss i-ei0tone went to her in the dinings-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 selfcommand in a lady of her years, and also at Lthe lack of real
strength in one who appeared almost robust; for Mrs. Pryor
hastened to allege tihe fatigue of her walk, the heat of the sun,
&c., as reasons for her temporary indisposition; and still, as,
with mnore hurry than coherence, she again and again enumerated these causes of exhaustion, Caroline gently sought to
relieve her by openlinDg her shawl and removing her bonnet.
Attentions ofi: this sort, Mrs. P'ryor would not have accepted
from ev ery one: in general, she recoiled from touch or close
approach, with a mixture of embarrassment and coldness fal
fiom  flattering to those iwho offered her aid: to Miss Ilel.
stone's'little, light hand, however, she yielded tractably, and
seened soothed by its contact.  in a few minutes she ceased
to tremble, and grew quiet and tranquil.
Hter usual manner being resumed, she proceeded to talk of
ordinary topics.  In a miscellaneous company, M1rs. Pryof
rarely opened her lips; or, if obliged to speak, she spoke under
reatraint, and consequenitly not well; in dialogue, she was a
god coversere: her language, always a little fbrmal, -was well




SHIRLEY AND CAROLINE
chosen; her sentiments wNere just; her information was varied
and correct.  Caroline felt it pleasant to listen to her: more
pleasant than she could have anticipated.
Oa the wall opposite the sofa where they sat, hung three
pictures: the center one, above the mantle-piece, that of a
iady; 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 conlversation: "6 the features may be termed perlect; no statuary's
chisel could improve them: it is a portrait from  the life, I
presumnie "
"  It is a portrait of Mrs. Helstone."
"Of Mrs. Matthewson Ilelstone?  Of your uncle's wife?"
"It is, and is said to be a good likeness: before her marriage, she was accounted the beauty of the district."
"  should say she merited the distinction': what accuracy
in all the lineament;s   It is, however, a passive face: the
origilal could not hlave been w}hat is generally termed'a
wouman11 of spirit.'
"I believe she was a remarkably still, silent person."
" One wouldi scarcely have expected, my dear, that yout
uncle's choice should lha.ve fallen onl a partner of that description.  Is lie not fond of being amused by lively chat?"
"In company lhe is; but lie always says he could never do
with a tallting  ife: he must have quiet; at home.  You go
out to gossip, be affirns; you come home to read and redfect."
IMrs. MIJatthewsson lived but a few years after her mar
riage, I think I hlave  heard'"
"About five years."
"Well, mny dear," pursued Mrs. Pryor, rising to go, "i 
trust it is understood that you wvill fiequently conle to Fieldhead: I hope you w iill.  You must feel lonely here, having
no f.male relative in the, house: you must necessarily pasa
auch of your timne ii solitude."
"I am  inured to it: I have growt tiup by myself  May I
ar'range your shawl for you?"
Mrs. Pryor submitted to be assisted.
"Should you clanee to require help in your studies," sihs
said, "you may comlmand me."
Caroline expressed her sense of such kindne.




' i hope to have frei'quecnt tonver)sa-tions with yoit.  r slhotJi
wish to be of u:e to vou."
Again, MAiss leistone redtlurfned thank s.  She thought wha.t
ha kind he:t wias hidden under her visitor's seemingi ehilliness.
Observing that fMrs. Pryor again glarced with an air of fiter.est towralrd the portraits, as she walked down the room, Carolibe casually explaRned: —The lkcene.ss h.t h   angs -tecar thle vwindcow, you will see.,
is my uncle, taen. t-wenty year  a0o; ithe other, to the left
of the ma.ntlepiece,  is his brother J3anes, my father."
" Tl1ey reserabie each othe'r in some measure," said Mrs.
Pryor;;  y et a diffirencc oaf ceharacter may be traced in the
difbrelli; mold of the brow owand mouth."
"'iaWhl.   diWbroencho?"  inquilret  Caroline, accompanyingr her
to thIe door.  "J ames I selstone  that is, my father-is generally considered ile bkot sIooking of the two'  strangers, I renta-k, always exclaim, v-bhat i handsome man!  Do you think
his pictvre haindsome,.1rs. PiTor?":It is n,,ti si fr   or  fi r.fb.at.i..red  than lthat of your
"n   il         where or  wh iat is th1  difi'{ronee of clfra eer to Whihe
you all utdedl'fell  e: I wxish to see if you gruess right."
"ATMy dear, your alnele Is a    an oif' prinei'.ple    his fobrchead
n:l h1s lips a1 e firm,  and is eyu e is ste ady."
" Wel, and the ot er?  D)o iot'ie af-a id of ohfli.Oding rie:
i alwas lilke the truth.',
"Do yo0  ikhe tihe  truth        is well kIr  on:' adhere to
that peisrelce — never swernve 4terce. c     The other, -,y  dear,
if he had been. liyvil nov, i twol   probably'have fulnished little
Ripuort to hIis daughte:.  It is, however, a gracefidl head —
t;alken il youthl, i sllhould ti,.k.    y dear (turning abruptly),
you acknowledge an inestimacte valne  ai principle?";;  am sure.110 cnaracter Cean have true wort"x without it."
"ou:el r whiat you sa.y?  Y'ou have considered the snib
jeet?"
"O (t;en. Circuvmstances early forced it- upon romy attention."
"The lesson was not lost, then, though1 it Came so preim-s.
turely l    I suppose'the1 soil is not light nor stony, otfherwise
Soed Ialhing in that season never would have borne fruit.  My
dear, do noit stamtid ia the air of the door, yoni wi1 takle cold;
good -atelrlooIn" 




SH-IRLEY  AND CARtOLIN.                    1i97
Miss IHelstene's new acquaintanee soon became of value te
ther: their society vwas acknowledged  a privilege.  She found
she- ould 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 fbr them, which, diverting a few of
them, at least, firom the one direction in which all had hitherto
tended, abated the impetuosity of thleir -ush, and lessened the
tiree of their pressure on one worn-diown point.
Soon. she was content to sped- whrole days at Fieldhead,
doing by turns -wh0:atever Shirley or Mrs. Pryor wished hier
to do: and now one woiuld claim her, now the other. -Nothing
could be less demonstrative than the friiendship of thle elder
lady;  but also nothing could be more vigilant, assiduous, una.
tiring.  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 ibo Caroline.  She watched
all her movements: she seemed as if she Would have guarded
all her st-eps: it gave her pleasure to be applied to by Miss
[-elstone for advice and assistancee; she yielded her aid, when
asked, with such quiet yet otbvious enjoylment, that Caroein
re long took delight int depending on her.
Shirley Keeldar's complete docility with Mrs. Pryor had at.-rst surprisedt. Miss Hielstone, and not less the fact of the re.
served ex-goverunes beiing so much at home and at ease in the
residence of her young pupil, w-here she filled with such quniet
independencv a very dependent post; but she soon found that
it leeded  but to hnow both ladies to comprehend fully the
enigma.  /Every one, it seecned to her, must like, must love,
mBust prize Mrs. Pryor when they linew her. INo matter that
she perseveringlyT wore old-fashioned gowrns; that her speech
was Iormal, and her manner cool; that she had twenty little
ways such as nobody else had —she was still such a stay, such
a counselor, so trutlifhl, so kind in hefr way, that, in Caroline's
idea, none once aceustomed to her presence could casily affbrd
1,o dispense with it.
As to dependency or'humiliation, Caroline did not feel it in
her intercouorise with Shirley, and why should Mrs. Pryor?
The heiress w.as; rih —-very rich-comparedt  with her new
tid thm: o-ie possessed a clear thousand a year-the other not
a  penilny; imud yet there was a $afi sense of equality exjperii*




19S                    SHIRLEY.
onced in her society, never known in that tof the ordinaqr
Briarfield and.Whinbury 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 manor, and having tenants and an estate: she
was especially tickled with an agreeable complacency when
reminded of "all that property" down in the Hollow, "cornprising a.n excellent cloth-mill, dyehouse, warehouse, together
with the messuage, gardens, and outbuildings, termed Hollow's
cottage;" but her exultation., being quite undisguised, was
singularly inoffensive; and, fbr 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 ihur oftener than she pondered oa her social
superiority.
In Caroline, Mliss Keeldar had first taken ant interest because she was quiet, retiring, looked delicate, and seemed as
if she needed some one to take care of her.  HIer 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 Helstone, she fancied, had too pretty a face, manners and voice
too soft, to be any thing out of the common way in mind and
aLtainments; and she very much wondered to see the gentle
f.atures light up archly to the reeille' of a dry sally or two
risked by herself; and more did she wonder to discover the
self-won knowledge treasured, and the untaught speculations
~working in that girlish, curl-vailed head.  Caroline's instinct
of taste, too, was like her own; such books as Miss Keeldar
haId read with the most pleasure, were Miss IHelstone's delight
also.  They held many aversions, too, in commonl, and couli
have the comfort of laughing together over works of fiake sentimentality and pompous pretension.
Few, Shirley conceived, men cor women have the riglht
taste in poetry; the right sense Ibr 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 refhsed to acknowledge as any thing  but cant.




SHIRLEY AND CAROLINE.                     199
Rourish, and tirsel, or, at the best, elaborate wordiness; cuarons,;
clever, learned perhaps; haply, even tinged with the fascinating hues of iancy, 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
simniles, as the rmilliner's artificial wreath is from the fresh
gathered lily of the field.
Caroline, she fbunrd,- felt the value of the true ore, and
knew the deception of the flashy dross.  The minds of the
two girls beingtu toned in harnlolny, often chimed very sweetly
togethter.
-Oile evenilng, 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:forn the far-remote ocean: all
was tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace with-it. Shirley 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 furthest 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 xell-remembered
poetry. She spoke very low, but Shirley heard her; and, while
sixging softly, she listened.  This was the strain:
"i Obscurest night- involved the say,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wiretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home forever left."'
Hemr the fragment stopped, because Shirley's song, erewltle
omewha.t full and thrilling, had become delicately faint.




2}~~~~00          ~S 11 I Ti  L E Y.
"  o  n " s'i  sid e.
" Trhe n  ou g'Jo   on, toe.  I was only repeating   i'e Cast
away.
" I know    I. you casa remmnber  it Jll, say it ll."
And as It was nearly ldar,  and, naf'ter all, iLisis Keeldai
n~as- no nbrmnidable aundtor, Caroline went thruougTh it.  She;eilt flhro igh. it as she should have grone thruoahn..       J te
w'itlCa sea,    mar          inhe  er, 4the re.ltant shi;J Swe aepot on0
in the storm   you heard were reaized by lier; an.d  noro
vividlyv was realized the heart of- the poet, who did not weep
fbr " The oCastawa-y,"  but whoN, i-ti ai  hour  of'tearless
angtnish, traced a semblance  to his o(n (3G-o-a0bandoned missiry in the fate of' thalt man-forsaken stailor, ald cried fiom the
depths whereo  e hstruglec: —' Nro voico divilO thle storm alla.yeds
Nov ight propitious shoie,
When, snatched from a}ll elfectnal aid,
We perished-eali alone I
t        t.l t T-)tbneath  rothe. ste1,
Arud whelmed iat deeper guilts than he."," 1 hope William Cowper is safe and cal  in in heaven   now,"
said Caroline.
" Do 3yro  pity Nwvhat ho sufieread on earth?" asked M iss
Keeldar.
"tPityv him, Shirley    WVhat  an t.  do else?   lie wa4
nearly broklen-nearted whenr hbe wrote that poem, and it almost breaks onea's heart to read it.  But hie iound relief ill
writing it —i nmow l he did.  and that gift of poetry, the rost
divine bestowed on mani — was, I believe, granted to allay
efmotiontss when their strength threatens hlarm.  It fseelms:t
me, Shirley,  at r nobody should writ;e poetry to exlillit intelIeet or attainnment. WVho cares for that sort of poetry 9  Who
i-aies for learnini — lwho eares for fine xrords in poet-ry?  And
who does not care for feelings-real fbeling-however simply,
e.vin rudoely expressed?"' It seems you care for it, at all events:  nd aertainly, in
learing that poem., one discovers that Cowper was unader an
impulse istrong as that of the wind which drove the ship. —an
impulse winchl, while it woudmI   rnot sunfr hilm  to stop to adid
a1unamnent tlo a single sta.za, filled hin tNwith force to ncheiove




,8It.RLL.Y  A ND   AtOL 0N LI. OE.
Fe w'hTlte wi'ii cansunmMate perfection.  You managed t.c
re(cite it with a steady voice, Carolinc: I wonder floereat."
"Cowper's hand did not tremble jil writing tie lines: wily
should my voice falter in repeatiyng  them?   Depend on it,
Shirley, no tear blistered the manuscript of' The Castvaway
I hear in it no sob of sorrow, only the cry of despair; brtl,
that ery tttered, I believe the deadly spasmr passed from his
heart; that he wept abunldauntly, au.d was comforted.'
Shiirlevy:restLed her ballad miustrelsy.  Stopping slhor t, sTh
remarked ere rlonl-One could haNe loved( Cowper, if it, were only fot the sake
of haviug t he privilege  of comfbrting him."'Y You nover wouldl have, loved Cowper," rejoined Caroline,
prompt'ly  "he wras not made to be loved by woman.",;7ha t do you rneaLn'! 
What' It say.  I know there is a kind of natures ih the
world —ann. verv- noble, elevat;ed natures, too -  whNom  love
niiver comes- nuear.  YSou- miglt laven sought Cowper with
the intentionl of loving him t; ancd youa would have looked at
himrn, pitied himn, i e ft himd: f bred away by a sense of the
inaossible, the inlcongruous, as the crew were borne from their
diowning  comrade by' the furious blast.'"
"You may be right.  WVho told you this?"
"And whabt 1 say of Cowper, I should say of'Rous6xcau.
XWas R.ousseau ever loved?  1H-e loved passionately; but was
his passion ever returned?  I am certain, never, And if there
were any female'Cowvpers and I[ousseaus, I should assert the
sarne of thern."
"Wh li told you this, 71 ask?.Did Moore?"'t \Whyr s^holltl any'body have told me?  Iave   n1ot all
instinct't  Can I not divine by analogy?    ioore nevet
takedcl   Io me eith-r abo-ut Cowper, or tRousseau, or love..
Ti( voice   e  hear ina solitiude told me all  Im ow on these
Do o like c'aracters of the Rousseau order, Caroline?'
"Not at all,.as a, whole.   I sympathize intensely with
certaia qualities ithey possess: cerlain divine sparks ina their
rature dazzle my eyes, and ma ke my soul glow. Then, again,
f -,sorti themn. They are made of clay:andc gold. T.he refulse.ijrd 1the oe malke a mass of wesakmuess: taken afogetler, I fci
them un-natural, unhiealthy, repullsive."




2)02 S2                 H IRLEY,
" ] dare sav.I should ben more tolerant of a Rlounseau tbai:
you would, Cary: 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."'Kajiid' he. m;st miss you?"
rhat he does not."
"l can not imagine," pursuoed 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 can not
iagine but thllat he was fbnd of, you, since he took so much
notice of you, talked to you, and ta*ugqy)ousoa much."
H' He never was fond of me: he never professed to be fond
of me.  iIe took pains to prove that he only just tolerated
Caroline, determined not to err on the flatteringf 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 Keeldar, " you only just
tolerated him, in return?"
"Shirley, men and women are so different: they are in
such a different position.  Wnomen lhave so few things to,hink about-mexn 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.
Plobert used to be in the habit of going to London, sometimes
tbr a week or a ibortnight together; well, while he was away,
I found his absence a void: there was something wantilng;
Briarfield 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 can not 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.aview of
Robect-to see where he was, how occupied-I should have
icarned, in a startling manner, the width of the hasm. which




SHIRLEY  AND CAROLINE.                   20o
gaped betwee-n such as he and such as I. I knew that, how.
ever my thoughts might adhere to him, his were efifetually
sundered from me."
"Caroline," demanded Miss Keeldar, 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
[ cameinito the world for. I long to have somnething absorlb
tng and compulsory to fill my head anid hands, and to occupy
mny thoughts."
"Can labor alone make a humnan being happy?"
"'.o; but it.can give varieties of pain, and prevent us friom
breaking our hearts with a single tyrant master-torture.  Besides, successful labor has its recompense; a vacant, weary,
lonely, hopeless life has none."
"But hard labor and learned professions, they say, make
women masculine, coarse, unwomanly."
"And what does it signify, -whether unmarried and neverto-be-married women are unattractive and inelegant, or not?
-provided only they are decent, decorous, and neat, it is
enougla. The utmost which ought to be required of old maids,
mn the way of appearance, is, that they should not absolutely
otrend men's eyes as they pass them in the street; for the
rest, they should be allowed, without too muc h scorn, to be as
absorbed, grave, plain-looking, and plain-dressed as they please."
"You might be an old maid yourrself' Caroline, you speak
so earnlestly'."
"I shall be one: it is my destiny.  I will never nmarry a
Malone or a Sykes-and no one else will ever marry ine."
H-ere fell a long pause: Shirley broke it. Again the name
Yiy which she seemed bewitched was almost the first on he-,
tips.' Linia-did not Moore call you Lina sometimes?"
" Y~:s: it is sometimes used as the abreviation of Caroline
in his native country."
"WVell, Lina, 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
out therefrom a long lock F"
Y es."
"If he is, and always was, as indifferent to you as you say,
why did he steal your hair?"




204S                       I I       E Y.
[ don'It know —yes, 1 1do: it was.y doitng, not his. lEverg
thiting of that sorut alw'ays iv5ri- my11 doing. t Ie was goiing 1iii
hoe, 1 o      on,to  as Lodo ta; a-dui t thle iig'ht befre he  wenit, I
had found i.Et his siter's worik-box a lock of black hair — a
short, round curl  Hertense told me it was her brother's, and
at keepsake.   Te uwas sitting near the table; I lookled at his
head-he has plenty of air   on'i th1e emples were many swieh
round curls,  I. thoulwht he coulld spare nae one: I kneW!.hould like to hlave it, and I asiecl for it.   lie said, on condition that he  light have his choice of a tress firom 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 sa.y, he has los; nine.  tt.was my doing, and one of' those silly deeds it distresses the
1heart and sets the face on fire to think of: one of those smalL
but shaxFp recollections that return, iacerating your self rfespet
like tilvny peCiks ives, n l forcing from your lips, as you. sit hlolie,
sudden, insane-soLndincg interjections."
"Caroline!"
" 1  0o think myself a fool, Shirley, in some respeets  I do
lespise myslSelf.  But I  said it would not male yeou my contessor; for yol can not reciprocrate foible  for foible- you are
not Nweak. Itlow  steadily you wrRatch me noW  Turn aside
your clear, strong, she-eagle eyee; it is an insvlIt Ito fix it on
se tulls.''
" What a study of character you are.!  WFeak, certainly;
but not in the sense youen think.  Come ia!"
This was said in answer to a tap at the door.  Miss Keel.
-dar happened to be near it at; the moment, Careline at trhe
otller end of the room.  She saw r note p-ut into Shirlefy's
hands, and heard the words"]?ron Mri, MIoore, lma'mam."
"Bring candles," said Miss Keeldat
Caroline sat expectant.
"A  communication on business," said the heiress; biut
when candles werie brought, she neither opened nor read it.'.'he rector's Fanny was presently annonneed, and the rector's
nice went home




OOMM hTUNQA'  ON.S {N  T2USNtfSlS                 0o
CHAPTER  X11I.
tUReTI'ER CO'.tUNS.ATION:TS O;i rUsiNE sS
IsN  hirley's nature prevailed, at.tines, -ll easy indolence
Thiere werere periods when she took delight in plerect vaeancy
of hand and eye-mnolments when her thoughts, her simple
existenee, the iaet of the -world being around, andi heaven
above her, seemed to vield her such fullnes  of happiness,
tihat she did not need to lift a finger to increase the joy.
Often, after an. active mornrinr, she would spend a sunny
afternoon in lying stirless on:he turf at the  hoet of some tre'
of fiiendly umbrage: no society did she need. but that that
Caroline, and it sufficed if she were -within coall; no spectacle
did she a.sk but that of the deep-blue sky, and suehlo ecoudlets
as sailed afhr and aloft across its span.; no sound but that of
the bee's hum1, the le'i"s whispcer.  l-er cole book in sucIN
hours was the dim  chronicle of' inemory, or the sybil page of
anticipation.   iromni her youngC eyes i'el on eacch vonlume a
glorious light to leanc  by; round her lips at monments played
at smlile which lrevealed. glimpses Of' the tale or prophecy.  iLt
was not sad, not da.trk.  Fate harid been. benin t to the blissfi
dreamter, and promised to frvor her yet agyaiir,   in her past
were s weert passages, in her future rosy  eopes.
Yet one day when Caroline d rew  eiar to'rouse'her, tllhinking she had'lain long enotoh,  beohold! as sihe looked down.
Shirley's cheek was wiet as if' rith dew; those fine eyes of
hers shone, humid and bhimming.
44 Shirley, why d(o fot cry?"  asked Caroline, involuatarily
laying stres's on?s/o.
Miss Keeldar simn led,'and turnie d   her picturesque head tosard' the questionce.  "hBecause it pleases mre mightily to
ory," she said.  " lvr heart is both sad and glad; but why,
you good, patient ehild-why do yo'.l not bear me cormpany?
t only weep tears, delightftil and?'&    wiped awTay y-ou
migkht.  eep ga1,  i!3 you choose."
"'\hy should I weep gall?"'




20f;                    S IL i R L E Y.
M'/Miateless, solitary bird!" was the only ansiwer.' And are not you, too, mateles, Shirley?"
I' At heart-no."' Oh! who nestles there, Shirley?"
But Shirley only laughed gayly at this question, and aleItly
btarted up.
" I have dreamed," she said-" a nmere day-dream; ccr
tainly bright, probably baseless I'
Miss flelstone was by this time free enough fromil illusions,
she took a sufficiently grave 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 ilfluenee over her, and it was these, and the power of habit,
which still frequently drew her of an evening to the field-stile
ald the old thorn overloolking the Hollow.
One nigaht-the night after the incident of the note-she
had been at her usual post, watching for her beacon-watch{l-1 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 Fieldhead, on her retur,,
its moonlight beaul;y attracted her glance, and staid her
step an instant.  Tree and hall rose peaceful under the nighlt
sky and clear, full orb; pearly paleness gilded the building;
m-ellow  brown gloom  bosomred it round; shadows of deep
greeln brooded above its oak-wreathed roof.  The broad pavenent in fi'ont shone pale also; it gleamed as if some spell
had transibrmled the d(ark granite to glistering Parian; on
the silvery space slept two sable shadows, thrown sharply deClned fromr two human figures.  These figures, when first
e'.en, were nmotionless and mute; presently they moved in
harmolious step, and spoke low in harmonious key.  Earnest
was the gaze that s(rutinrized them  as they emerged from
behind the trunkf of the cedar.  " Is it MItrs. Pryor and
Shirley?"
Certainly it is Shirley.'Whho  1se has a shape so lithe,
and proud, and graceful?  And her face, too, is visible: her
counrtellance careless and pensive, and musing and mirthful,
and m-ockinl anld tender.  Not fearing the dew, she has not
covered her head.   IeCr curls are free; they vail her neck
and caress ter sh0oullder withl their tendril rings.  An orna



COMMUtNICATIfNS ON  BUSIN.ESS.                  207
ment of gold gleams through the half-closed folds of the
Boaxf she has wrapped across her bust, and a large bright
gem glitters on the white hand which confiines it.  Yes, that
is Shirley.
T-ier 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 walkinog at Mliss Keeldar's side is a man-a tall,
younog, stately mlan —it is her tenant, Robert Moore.
The pair speak softly, their words are not distinguishabie
To remain a moment to gaze is not to be an eaves-dropper;
andc as the moon. shines so clearly and their coun tenlanees are
so distinctly apparent, who can resist the attraction of such
interest?  Caroline, it seenms, can not, for she lingers.
There wras a time when, on summer nights, Moore had
been tont to walk with his cousin, as he was now walking
with the heiress.  Often had she gone up the Hollow wii:ti
hia after sunset, to scent the freshness of the earth, where a
growth of fragrant herbage carpeted a certain narrow terrae>,
edging a deep ravine, from wlhose riited gloomln was heard a
sound lilke the spirit of the lonely watercourse, moaning amolg
its wet stones, and between its weedy banks, anrd under ils
dladf bower of alders.
"But I used to be closer  to him," thought Caroline;  lie
ftelt no obligation to treat me with homage: I needed only
kiLndess.  L-te used to hold my hand: he does not touchl hers.
Antd yet Shirley is 1iot 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: w,,hat she retains itn
[ er inost careless as in her most guarded moments.  Robert
inst think as I tilink, that he is at this instant looking
down oil a fine flce; and he must think it with a man's
brain, not with mine.  She has such generous, yet soft fire in
h-er eyes.  She srmiles  what makes her smile so sweet I  I
saw that Robert felt its beauty, and he must have fel it it with
his man's heart, not with my dim woman's perceptions. They
Look to me like two great happy spirits; yonder silvered pavemen. t reminds mne of' that white shore we believe to be beyondI
the death-flood: they hanve reached it, they walked there
united.  Anld What am I-standing here in shadow, shrinknlg into concealment, my mind darker than my hiding-place I
1DtO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I




20hW'  HIRTILEY.
am  one o,f' this world, no -spirit-a pour, doomeld rortal,
who asks, in ignorLance ald hopelessness, wherefore she was
born, to wha. tl e  sche lives; whose mind forever runs on the
iqestion, r;owv she shall at last encounter, and by whom  be
eustaineild Ith'oulAl death?
~' This is the xworst passage T hanve?-ome to Vet   stitl. i  w'as
quite prepaied fir it.  I gave robert up, alnd gave himf  up to
Shilllv the tirst da:i hoeard shffe was comnc-the first rnoment
I saw t     icr i. vouillfl, and lovely.  She has him now-he
i        is hs lo        arling —-s ihe will be 4kr more his dariing Ve t whet a they a re, married: the more 1t, obertt knoews of
hiirleyr, the.more  Il.s souil,ill cleave to the1,.  They'wil.
both be happv, and I do not; orndro them  ther bliss; bllut; 
groan. under  nly own Iite ry-s —Ole -of my sufleri.ng is very
acute.  T.ruly,  I oughr  not to have been'orn-; t;rey should
have smothered me at h;le first cry."
Here,  Shirley stepping aside to gCatlher a deiwy flower, she,
and her companion turned into a path that ILay henarer the.gate: somre o-t tIl.eir convrersation became audible.  Caroline
would not u'Itay to listen'  she passed away noiselessly,  and the
moonlIight kissed the wall twhich hler shdo-w  had dimmed.
T'he readerx is p'riviigced to rnmaint an  try -lwhat he can make
of th1ue,liscerDnIsc.
[ c It' noi; colinceivc;.y  TiT   dix (ct ic    o e  oi''a bull1dog's hea(l, -f oitou hate el a.  M, lalbc-do   ~I:aeity,," said
"Not 1 a P l eatlrin  idea' am I so  ognoble I'"
"'   d sometihing also you have of tiJ same  a. animal's Eilent
ways of goin'g abouct its i ork': you give no warning;  yoll comRo
noiselessy behind, seizce  ast, and hold on."'
This is gLels-'hwork    ol Eyou.a e'witnessedi no sd.l1 feat- oiq
my part;: in our presence I have been 1no bulldog."'
"'/our v erv silence indicates your' rae.  IHow little you
ta]lk in reneiral, yet howr deeply )you s c.heme!, Tou ate ith1see ang   y', are cnlUilati.)
i'  know t1le -ways of these pcople.  I have gatherred infbrmation of their int;ntions.   ij note last night informed
you that Barraclough's trial had ended in his-conviction and
sentence to transportation' his associates will plot ven0geance:
1: shall lay my plans so as to counteract, or, ai least, be pre.
pared or theirs; that is -al..  Having now given you as clear




CO i —,MMUNi CATiO'NO% OIN,3IsG!D  EIS.      20O
tn explatlation as I can, am I to und 1rstald. that for -what t
propose cdo'0  I ltave youru' approbation I"'1 I shall. stand by you so long as you remail oen the delimnsive.
Ye.s,,
"'G-ood?'Without any aid-evel  opposed or disapproved
by you-lI believe I should  have acted prec isely as I now it,
tend to a't;but in another spirit.  I now feel satisfied.  On
th e vhole,   reli C ish the position."
I dare say  you do; h  liat is evident: you relish the work
which lies.3efore you still better than you would relish the
execution of a goveernment order ibr armry-cloti."
(' r certainly feel it congentla."
So would old Ilelstone. It is true there is a shade of difft.lrenee ir your m.otives: imany shades, perhaps.  Shall I speak,o MirLt. I ol e,    I will, if you like."'-' Act as you please: your judgment, Mliss Keeldax, will
guide  o ut accurately.  I could  rely on it ryself in  a inoro
idiiciult crisis; but I should inform  you, Mlr. tes;tone is
minewhat prejudiced against ime at present."
I am  aware, eI have heard all about your dilfrence.s:
depend upon it they 1ill melt awa-y; he ca'  not resist the
temptation of an alliarcen under present enirlumstances."' i should be olad[ to have him: he is of true mnet;a"
"I  think sot alo."
"Anr old blacde, and yusated Somewhat; but the edge and
temper still excellent."
4 "Well, yort shall havie hiim, MIr. Mloore; that is, if I can
win hirm."
homn canl you not awin I'"
"Perliaps not the rector; but I will make the eTFort."
"Efibrt iHe'will yield for a word-a smile."
"' By no means.  It will cost me several cups of tea,
soine toast and cake, and an  ample measure of v'emon-'trances, expost'tlatiolns, and persuasions.  It grows rather
chill."
"[I perceive you shiver.  Am!  actlln  wrongly to detaia
you here?  Yet it is so calrn: I even foel it warm;  and society
such as yours is a pleasure to me so rare —if you were wrapped
in a thicker shawl 1'"
"I might stay longer, and forget how late it is, which would
rchagrin Mrs Pryor.  We keep early anll  regular houlrs  at




2 1  S  I.R   EY.
Fieldhlead, Mr. Moore; and so, I am Sture, loes your sister at
the cottage."
"Yes; but Hortense anrid I have an understanding, the mlost
convenient in the world, that we shall each do as we please."
"How do you please to do?"
"Thi'ee nights in the week I sleep in the mill: but I require
little rest; and when it is moonlight and mild, I ofteln haunt
the HIollow till daybreak."
"When I was a little girl, Mr. Moore, my nurse used to
tzell mne tales of fairies being seen in that Htollow.  That was
before my father built the mill, when it was a perfcctly solitary
ravine: you will be falling under enchantment."'  fear it is done," said Moore, in a low voice.
"But there are worse things than fairies to be guarded
against," pursued  [iss Keeldar.
"Things more perilous," he subjoined.
"'Far more so.  For instance, how would you like to meet
Michael Hartley, that mad Calvinist and Jacobia weaver'?
Tihey say lhe is addicted to poaching, and often goes abroad
at night with his gun."
"I have already had the luck to meet himi.'We held a
lono0 argument together one niohit.  A strange little incidentll
it was: I lilked it."
4'"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 that plank
bridge. It was moonlight, but clouded, and very windy. W~e
had a talk."
"On politicis "';Ancl religion.  I think the moon was at the ftll, and
Michael was as near crazed as possible: he uttered strange
blasphemy in his Antinomian fashion."
"t 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 inforrned
me that hell was foreordained my inevitable portion; that lie
read the mark of the beast on my brow; that I hadc been an
o:iteast from the beginning.  God's vengeance, he said, was




COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.                    21.
preparing for m1e, and afflirmed tlhat in a vision of thle night
rie had belleld the manner anct the instrument of my doom.
I wanted to know firither, but he left; rmle with these words,
Tile end is not yet.' "
"Have you ever seen him since,"
"About a month afterward, in retalrning firom market:.1
encountered him and Moses Barraclough, both in an advancee
stage of inebriation: they were praying in firantic sort at the
roadside.  They accosted me as Satan, bid me avaunt, and
clamrored to be delivered froro  temptation.  Again, but a fewN
days ago, Michael took thle trouble of appearing at the count
mgnhbouse door, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves —his coat and castoi
havingo been detained at the public-house in pledge: he delivered himself of the comfortable nessage that he could wrish
Mr. M3oore to set his house in order, as his soul was likely
shortly to be required of him."
"Do you make ligrht of these things?"
"'The poor man had been drinking for weeks, and was in a
state bordering on delirium tremens."
"W' What then?  He is the more likely to attempt the fulfilrlment of his own prophecies."
i It would not do to permit ineidents of this sort to affect
0o1n's nerves."
"' Mr. Moore, go home "
" So soon?"
i P>ass strailght down the fields, not round by the lane and
plantations."' t is early yet."
" It is late: ibr my part, I amn going in. Will you promise
nme not to wander in the Hollow to-night?"
" If you wish it."
"; I do wish it. May I ask whether you consider life valueless?"
" By no neans: on the contrary. of late I regard my lifb as
invaluable."
"Of late?"
"Existence is neither aimless nor hopeless to me now; and
it was both three months ago.  I was then drowning, an/d
rather wished the operation over. All at once a hand was
stretched to me-such a delicate hand, I scarcely daied trust
it: —its strength, however, has rescued me from ruin."




I8 i liLE It Y.'" Ard you r.eally ricuaed?"l
" Lor thi  iirrie  your assistance  has givCet le and othxex
clhance."
"Li-ve to make the best of it.  Domnt ofibr  yourself as a
tar-get to Michael Hartley, and  goo;d-night!"
IXs is Hel[stone was under a promuise to spend ttle evening of
the n:ext day at Fieldhead: she kept her pro'mise.  Some
glioomy hours had she spent in the interval.   luiost of the tihme
aad been passed shut iup in her own aparaatnent; only issulilg,
frorn it, indeed, to join her uncle at meals, a nd antieipatLg
Hrquiides fiPom' Flanny nby telinag her that she was, bu;s3y Mteruing' uress, and prekirred sewivng up-stairs, to aavoid interuption.
Sihe did sew:  she plied her needle contlnuoulSl, ceaselesly;
but her brain xworked  kster ithai  her finsgrs.  Again, and
leore intensely than   ever, she desired'a fixed occupation- no
niatter how onesros, how irklsomne.  l1er u1nle mlurst be once:more entreated, hat fist sle would consult'Mrs. Pryor.  HIer
icead labored to i4rarne proeejcts as diligently as her hands to
plait and stitech the thin texture of' the muslin snummer dress,pread on the litle whiteo couch at the iot  ofwhich she sat.
Now  anti then, Nwhile tlrhus doubly occupied, a tear would filt
iler eyes and aill on her busy ha-nds; but this siga of emotion
was rare, anrd quickly ethstied  the sharp pang passed, thir
dirminess cleared fioom her vision; she would re-thlread her necdie, re-arrar'e tuck and trimmning, and wvorlk On.
Late it th1le age>1oon she dressed he'self-: sle reachedi
irieldhead,  aiid appeared in tire oak parlor just as tea was
brought in.  Shirley asked her why sile came so late.
"' eceanse  have been ralking my dress," said she. "These
fine  -mr.Iy days begfan to nake me asharmed of rny winter u eiine; soso   have furblished up a lighter gariment.'
n.1 aWlhich  vou lookL as I like to see you," said Shirley.
You are a lady-like little person, Carolne' is she not, M3'is
Pryor?"
iMrs. 1J ryor nlevel Paid comnplimelnts, ancd seldon indulged in
Temarks, favorable or otherwise, on personal appearance.  On
the present occasion she only swept Caroline's earls from heg
cheek as she took a seat near her, caressed the oval outline,
and observed —
Y ou get somewhat thin, my love, antX sonlewhat pale




COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.                  213
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-yard: the back part of
the house is extremely ancient, and it is said that the outkitchens there were once inclosed in the church-yard, and that
there are graves under them.  I rather long to leave the rectory."
M' 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
can not 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 mild,
now only looks mournful.  Is this weakness of mind, Mrs.
Pryor, or what is it.  I can not help it: I often struggle
against it: I reason; but reason and effort make no difTerence."
" You should take more exercise," said Mrs. Pryor.
"Exercise! I exercise sufficiently: I exercise till I arm
ready to drop."
"My dear, you should go from home."
" Mrs. Pryor, I should like to go from home, but not oni
any purposeless excursion or visit.  I wish to be a governess,
a.s you have been.  It would oblige me greatly if you would
speak to my uncle on the subject."
" Nonsense," broke in Shirley.  "What an idea! Be a
governess! Better be a slave at once.  Where is the neces
Fity 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!" cried ShiIley.  "When are you idle   I 1
hi




214                   SH I ~LBY.
never saw a more industrious girl than you: you are always
at work.  Conime," 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 Keeldar put her hand into Caroline'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 am 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 wouldl it make you strong or happy to go and live a~
a dependent among utter strangers?  It would not; and the
experiment must not be tried. I tell you it woulu fail: it is
not in your nature to bear the desolate life governesses gener.
ally lead: you would fall ill: I won't hear of it."
And Miss Keeldar paused, having uttered this prohibition
very decidedly.  Soon she recommenced, still looking sornewhat " courroucde""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 cornpanion and monitress 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 pis-aller.  Drink
some tea, Caroline: eat something-syou eat nothing: laugh
and be cheerful, and stay at home."
Miss Helstone shook her head and sighed.  She felt what




COinMMUNICATIONS ON BU SINESS.               215
difficulty she would have to persuade any one to assist or
sanction her in making that change in ter life which she believed desirable.  Might she only follow her own judgment,
she thought she should be able to find, perhaps a harsh, but
an effectual 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 opposed accordingly.
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.
MIany that want food and clothinfg have cheerier lives and
brighter prospects than she had; rmany, harassed by poverty,
are in a strait less afflictive.
"Now, is your mriind 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 talh
fieely, 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 beer,
alone with Caroline, she might possibly have said something
to the point: Miss Keeldar'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 Helstone in an indi
rect way, by asking her if the fire made her too warm, placing
a screen between her chair and the hearth, closing a window
whence she imagined a draught proceeded, and often and rest.
lessly 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




216                   SHIRLEY.
summer I make an excursion. This season I propose spending
two months either at the Scotch lochs 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 are very good, Shirley."
"I would be very good, if you would let me: I have every
disposition to be good. It is my misfortune and habit, I know,
to think of myself paramount to any body else: but who is
not like me in that respect t However, when Captain Keeldar
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 i
We will go to the Highlands.  We will, if you can bear a
sea-voyage, go to the Isles-the Hebrides, the Shetland, the
Orkney Islands. Would you not like that? I see you would:
Mvrs. 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 wnith my cash. My thousand a year is not
merely a matter of dirty bank-notes ancl jaundiced guineas
(let me speak respectfully of both, though, bfor I adore them);
but, it may be, health to the drooping, strength to the weakl,
consolation to the sad. I was determined to make something
of it better than a fine old house to live in, than satin 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. W~Te wili
see seals hm Suderoe, and, doubtless, mermaids in Stromos.
Caroline is laughing, IMrs. Pryor: I made her le ugh; I have
done her good."
"I shall like to go, Shirley," again said Miss Helstone. " 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 re-appearing wreaths
of foam, whiter than lilies. I shall delight to pass the shores
of those lone rock-islets where the sca-bir.is live and breed




COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.    217
unmolested.  We shall be on the track of the old Scandina
vians-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 shrieking round it, and waves tumbling in
upon it, rather than of the graves under the rectory backkitchen."
"I will try; and instead of musing about remnants of
s;hrouds, and fragments of coffins, and human bones and mold,
I will fancy seals lying in the sunshine on solitary shores,
where neither fishermen nor hunter ever come; of rock-crevices full of pearly eggs bedded in sea-weed; of unscared birds
covering white sands in happy flocks."
"' And what will become of that inexpressible weight you
said you had on your mind I"
"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-mammoths
pasturing about the bases of' the'everlasting hills,' devouring
strange provender in the vast valleys through and above which
sea-billows roll). I should not like to be capsized by the patriarch bull."
" I suppose you expect to see mermaids, Shirley?"
"One of them, at any rate: I do not bargain for less: and
she is 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: sormething is to rise whike on the surface of the sea, over which
that morn 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




'218                    SHIRLEY.
all image, fair as alabaster, emerging from the dimn wave. We
both see the long hair, the lifted and foam-white arm, the
oval mnirror 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 appropriate) —whose
straight, pure lineaments paleness does not disfigure. It looks
at us, but not with your eyes.  I see a preternatural lure in
its wily glance: it beckens. 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
direadless. She comprehends our unmoved gaze; she feels
herself powerless: anger crosses her front; she can not charm.
but she will appall us: she rises high, and glides all revealed
on the dark wave-ridge.  Temptress-terror! monstrous likeness of ourselves! Are you not glad, Caroline, when at last,
and with a wild shriek, she dives?"
" But, Shirley, 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'woman' 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 i"
We are aware that mermaids do not exist: why speak
of them as if they did?  How can you find interest in speak
ing of a nonenity?"
"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 gardengate which creaks?"
Shirley stepped to the window.
"Yes, there is some one," said she, turning quietly away:
and as she resumed her seat, a sensitive flush animated her
face, while a trembling ray at once kindled and softened hei
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 tile
three ladies, none of whom could boast a stature much beyond




COiMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.    219
the average. He was loolk;nsg Mell, better than he had been
knowtL to look for the past twelve months: a sort of renewed
youth glowed in his eye and color, and an invigorated hope
and settled purpose sustained his bearingr: firmness 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 Keeldar, 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," saidI 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 at Caroline-not, however,
fbr the first tirme-his glance had fallen upon her before: he
bent toward her as she Eat, gave her his hand, and asked her
how she was.  The light from the window did not fall upon
lMiss Helstone, her back was turned toward it: a quiet though
rather low reply, a still demeanor, and the friendly protection
of' early twilight, kept out of view each traitorous 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 Keeldar. HIe had placed himself well: his neighbor,'screened by the very closeness of his vicinage from his scrutiny,
and sheltered further by the dusk which deepened each moment, soon regained, not merely seemning, but real mastery
of the feelings which had started into insurrection at the first
announoernent of his name.
-Ie addressed his conversation to Miss Keeldar.
"I went to the barracks," he said, " and had an interview
with Colonel Ryde. He approved my plans, and promised
the aid I wanted: indeed, he offered a more numerous force
than I required-half a dozen will suffice. I don't intend
to be swamped by red-coats; they are needed for appearance




220                   S H i R L E Y.
rather than any thing else; my main reliance is on lmy onm
civilians."
" And on their captain," interposed Shirley.
" What! Captain Keeldar?" inquired Moore, s! ghtly smiling, and not lifting hlis eyes: the tone of raillery 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 the state of matters
here in the north; they especially condemn the supineness
and pusillalnimity 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
Keeldar.  While she perused them, he took his tea quietly;
but, though his tongue was still, his observant faculties seemned by no means off duty.  MIrs. 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 Keeldar, placed directly opposite, was seen without
effort.  She was the object his eyes, when lifted, naturally
met first; and as what remained 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 heightened complexion look fine as the
bloom of a red wild-flower, by contrast.  There was natural
grace in her attitude, and there was artistic effect in the ample
and shining folds of her silk dress-an attire simply-fashioned,
but almost splendid from the shifting brightness- of its dye,




COMMUNIOATIONS ON BUSINESS.    221
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
Moore thought so, as his eye 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 ungentle, 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
manceuvre a little to get her well within the range of his observation: he leaned back in his chair, and looked down on
her. In Miss Helstone neither he nor any one 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 ascertainedhe said nothing to that effect.
"' How is Hortense?" asked Caroline, softly.
64 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."
"WThat if I forget?  I am not the surest messenger of
compliments."
I "No, don't forget, Robert; it is no compliment-it is in
good earnest."
"And must therefore be delivered punctually 9"
if you please."
"Hortense will be ready to shed tears.  She is tenderhearted on the subject of her pupil; yet she reproaches you
Trot




222S I I HIRL E Y.
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.  If she had da.ed,
too, 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 quiet at
gobert'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
tgave 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 inprisoned bird would the admission of sunshine to its cage: it
was of no use arguing-contending against the sense of present happiness: to be near Robert was to be revived.
Miss Keeldar 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 amrn 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."
I-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 Briarfield,, though in what form  they expected them  to
break out was not specifie(l.  Neither Caroline nor Mrs,
Pryor, asked questions: the subject did not appear to be regarded as one ripe for free discussion; thlerefore the lady and.
her tenant were suffered to keep details to themselves, unwisportuned by the curiosity of their listeners.
Miss Keeldar, in. speaking -to, Mr.- Moore,took a tone at
once -animated and dignified, confidential and %elf-respectiig




COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.    223;When, however, the candles were brought in, and the firo
"was stirred up, and the fullness of light thus produced- rentiered 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 settled were his views, apparently; for he 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 peremptory phrase or tone the mellow accents
and susceptible, if high nature of Shirley.  Miss Kleeldar
looked happy in conversing with him, and her joy seemed
twofold-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: broughlt 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 hand than usual: she-stepped up to Miss Keeldar.: "Good-night, Shirley!'?
Shirley started up.  "What!-so soon?  Are yrou going
already?'"
"It is past nine."
"I never heard the clock. You will come again to-morrow;
and you will be happy to-night, will you not?  Remember
oulr plans."
" Yes," said Caroline;, "I have not forgotten".'"'- Her. mindl misgave- her that neither those plans nor any
other could permanently restore her mental tranquillity. She
turned to Robert, who stood close"behind her: as he lookcd




224                   SHI RL EY.
up, the light of the candles on the mantle-piece fell full on the
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 in.
dicated.
"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 hand,..
" Yes."
"Is Fanny come for you?"
6Y Yes."
" I may as well accompany you a step of the way: not up
to the rectory, though, lest my old friend, Helstone, 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 house-maid;
"we shall overtake you:" and when the girl had got a little
in advance, he inclosed 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 Keeldar 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," sald Moore:
"if she professes friendship, be certain she is sincere: she can
not feign; she scorns hypocrisy. And, Caroline, are we never
to see you at Hollow's 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 Keeldar'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."




COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.    225
t' Not too tender, that is to say; not too protective and attentive. And what ails you, then?-tell me, Lina."
"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
estrange us, is it?"
" I do not know: sometimes I almost fear it is."
"But it ought not to have that effect.' Should old ae~
quaintance be forgot, and days of lang syne?'"
" 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 fields 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 walk
to the top of the Hollow's fields 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 yo-u! W~as
I alone?"
" I saw you twice, and neither time were you alone."
"Who was my companion?  Probably nothing but Joo
Scott, or my own shadow by moonlight."
"No; neither Joe Scott nor your shadow, Robert.  The
first time you were with Mr. Yorke; and the second time,
what you call your shadow was a shape with a white fore*
head and dark curls, and a sparkling necklace round its neck;
but I only just 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 ling on youx
hand this evening; can it be the ring of Gyges? Henceforth,
when sitting in the countingrhouse by myself; perhaps at dead
of night, I shall permit myself to imagine that Caroline may
he leaning over my shoulder reading with me from the same




22G                   S.I R L EY.
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 infliction: I do not come near you:
I only stand afir 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 watchl.
man'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-shadows will take your shape; in the white sprays of
hawthorn, I shall imagine glimpses of you. Lina, 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 end, and among half a dozen of them, moving to and
fro, I seemed to see a figure resembling yours. It was some
-effect of doubtful light or shade, or of dazzling sunbeam.  I
walked up to this group; what I sought had glided away: I
found myself between two buxom lasses in 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 parlor thinking to find
HIortense; but instead of her, I thought I found you. There
was no candle in the room: my sister had taken the light
pip-stairs with her;: the window-blind was not drawn, and
broad moonbeams poured through the panes: there you were,
Lina, at the casement, shrinling a little to one side in an attitude not unusual with you. You were dressed in white, as:I have seell you dressed at an evening party.  For half a
second, your fresh,. living face seemed.turned toward me,
looking at me: for half a second, my idea was to, go and take
your hand, to chide you for your long absence, and welcome
your present visit. Two steps forward broke the spell: the
drapery of the dress changed outline; the tints of- the complexion dissolved, and were formless: positively, as 1 reached
the spot, there was'.'nothing l]eft'but the sweep- of a white




COlMUNIoATIO NS ON BUSINESS.    227
muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in a flower-pot, covered
with a flush of bloom-' sic transit,' et cetera."
" It was nAt 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, Lina, two natures; one.
for the world and business, and one for home and leisure.
G6rard 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 andl counting-house."
" Your two natures agree with you: I think you are looking in good spirits and health: you have quite lost that
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
Inore sea-roomr."
"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: gusts and swells perpetually trouble
the mariner's course; he dare not dismiss from his mind the
expectation of tempest."
"But you are ready for a breeze —you are a good seaman
-an able commander: you are a skillful pilot, Robert; youi
will weather the storm.",: -           -    -
"My kinswoman always thinks the best' of me, but I will
rlke her words ftbr a propitious omen: I will consider that in
mneeting  her to-night, I have met one of those birds whose
appearance is to the sailor the 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 can not prove it;:
yet:I have that will.-  I wish you success; I wish you high
fortune and-true happiness."  -.
"When did you ever wish me any thing else?  Wh.at is
F.anny waiting for- I told: her-to walk on?  Oh'! we have
reached, the church-yard; then we atre to- part here, I supposeowe mr ight" have sat a few minutes in the church-porch, if the




,228                  SHIRLEY.
girl had not been with us. It is so fine a night, so summnermild and still, I have no particular wish to return yet to the
Holl1w."
"But we can not sit in the porch now, Robert."
Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round
toward it.
"Perhaps not, but tell Fannv 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 church-yard."
" And if he does?  If it were not for Fanny, who knows
we are here, I should find pleasure in dodging and eluding
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 7Wynnes would screen
us completely."' Robert, what goods 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."
"D]able! 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. Moore was less scrupulous; "Fanny's 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 dare say, with pleasure. I should like to
provoke the old Turk —not, however, against you: but he
would make a distinction between a cousin 4nd 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




COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.    229
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. MiVoore 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 behiind
Fanny; the shadow of the shovel-hat at that very instant fell
on a moon-lit tomb; the rector emerged, erect as a cane, from
his garden, and proceeded in slow march, his hands behind
him, down the cemetery. Moore was almost caught: he had
to " dodge," after all, to coast round the church, and finally
to bend his tall form behind the Wynnes' ambitious monument.
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 eyes shining, and his lips parted with inward laughter
at his position; for the rector meantime stood coolly star-gaz
ing, and taking snuff within three feet of him.
It happened, however, that Mr. Helstone had no suspicion
whatever on his mind; for being usually but vaguely informed
of his niece's movements, not thinking it worth while to follow
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, p~eeping
anxiously from behind the blind, watching for her usele to
re-enter and her cousin to escape; and at last she was gratified: she heard Mr. Helstone 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 on the old garden and
older church, on the tombs laid out all gray and calm., and
clear in moonlight. She followed the steps of the night, on
its pathway of stars, fai into the "wee sma' hours ayont the
twal':" she was with Moore, in spirit, the whole time: she
was at his side: she heard his voice; she gave her hand into
his hand, it rested warm in his fingers.  When the church.
lock struck, when any other sound stirred, when a little mouse,
familiar to her chamber, an intruder for which she wculd never




230:SHIRLEY.
permnit Fannlly to lay a trap, came rattling amc,Wg the links of.
her locket-chain, her one ring, and another trinket or two, on
the toilet-table, to nibble a bit of biscuit laid ready for it,
she looked up, recalled momentarily to the real.  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 can not 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 protege, 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 morn-:ng wind, became a vague murmur. The shape that, seen in
a moonbeam, lived, had a pulse, had movement, wore health's
glow and youth's freshness, turned cold and ghostly gray, coniionted with the red of sunrise.  It wasted.  She was left
olitary at last: she crept to her couch, chill and'dejected.
CH-APTi EI XIV.
SI-IIRLEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY wVOnKS
"Or course, I know he will marry Shirley," were her fist
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 succeeding thought.  " Oh!  I shall be wholly forgotten! And
what —what shall I do when Robert is taken quite from me'!?
Where shall I turn?  M. Iy 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 can
not deny it.  This is no sordid suit: she loves him-not with
inferior feelings: she loves, or will love, as he must feel proud




SEEKS TO BE SAVED  BY WORKS.                231
to be loved.  Not a valid objection can be made.  Let them
be married, then: but afterward I shall be nothing to him,
As for being his sister and all that stuff, I despise it.  I wil.
either be all or nothing to a man like Robert: no feeble shu!f
fling, or false cant is endurable. Once let that pair be united,
and I will certainly leave them.  As for lingering about, playing the hypocrite, and pretending to calm sentiments of friendship, when my soul will be wrung with other feelings, I shall
not descend to such degradation. As little could I fill 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,ove, and must love him.  I would be his wife, if I could; as
I can not, I must go where I shall never see him. There is
buti one alternative —,Lto cIleave to him as if I were a part' of
him, or to be sundered from him wide as the two poles of a
sphere.  Sunder me then, Providnrce.  Part us speedily."
Some such aspirations as these were again working in her
mind late in the afternoon, when the apparition of one of the
personages haunting her thoughts passed the parlor windowl
Miss Keeldar sauntered slowly by: her gait, her countenance
wearing that mixture of wistfulness and Carelessness which,
when quiescent, was the wornted cast of her look, and character
of her bearing.  When animated, the carelessness quite van.ished, the wistfulness became blent with a genial gayety, seasoning the-]augh, the smile, the glance, with an unique flavor
of sentiment, so that mirth from her never resembled "the
crackling of thorns under a pot."
W "What do you mean by not coming to see me this after-'9oon, as you promised?" was her address to Caroline as she.atered the room.
"I was not in the humor," replied Miss Helstone, very truly.
Shirley had already fixed on her a penetrating eye.
"' No," she:said; "I see you are not in the humor for loving'
me: you are in one of your sunless, inclement moods, when
one feels a fellow-creattlre's presence is not welcome to you.
You.l have such moods: are you aware of it?"
"Do you mean to stay long, Shirley'i"
"Yes: I am come to have my tea, and must have it- before
I go. I shall take the liberty then of remloving my bonnet
without being asked."




232                   SHtIR LEY.
And >his she did, and then stood co the rug vsith her hands
behind her.
"A pretty expression you have in your corl'Jtenance," she.
went on, still gazing keenly, though not inimically, rather,
indeed, pityingly at Caroline.  "Wonr.sderfully self-supporte I
you look, you solitude-seeking, wounded deer.  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 to-day.  What time did you
reach the rectory!"
"By ten."
"Hnumph! You took three-quarters of an hour to walk a
mile.  Was it you, or Moore, who lingered so'"
"Shirley, you talk nonsense."
" lie talked nonsense-that i doubt not; or he looked it,
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
clay.
"' You don't ask me why,"' she proceeded, after a pautw
"you little, silent, over-modest thing; and you don't deserve
tha't 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 Moore yesterday evening with diro
intent: I have pistols, and can use them."
"Stuff, Shirley!  Which would }yu have shot-ime ox
Robert?"
"Neither, perhaps-perhaps myself —more likely a bat or
a tree-bough. He is a puppy-your cousin: a quiet, 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, &c.; and then-I have n) patience with him!"
Miss Keeldar started off on a rapid walk through the room,
repeating energetically that she had no patience with men in
general, ant - with her tenant in particular.




SEEKS TO BE SAVLD BY WORKS.                233
SYou 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 you-r word on
-the subject?- There is nu one's testimony I would not credit
sooner than yours. To aivance 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 hinr
from the window take your hand in his long fingers, just as
he went out at my gate."
" That is nothing.  I am not a stianger, 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 Keeldar.  "All my comfort," sho
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 recurring eclipse of our friendship. Again and again
he crosses and obscures the disk I want always to see clear;
ever and anon he renders me to you a mere bore and nuis
ance."
" 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 can not live alone.  If we were
but left unmolested, I have 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 can not say as
much respecting me."
"Shirley, I can say any thing you wish; Shirley, I like.you.)),
"You will wish me at Jericho to-morrow, Lina."
"I shall not. I am every day growing more accusto med
to-fonder of you. You know I am too English to get up a
vehement friendship all at once; but you are so much better
than common-you are so different from  every-day young
ladies, I esteem you-I value you; you are never a burden to
tne-never. Do you believe what I say?"
"Partly," replied Mliss Keeldar, smiling rather incredulous.
ly  " but yonu are a peculiar peisonage: quiet as you look




23t1                  SII]RLELY.
there.... is.both:, a:force and a depth somew'here  withill, no
easily reached or appreciated; then.yqu,,ert'aiany are:not,
happy."And unhappy people are rarely good-is that wl:at you
fnean 9
" Not at all: I mean rather that unhappy people ar often
preoccupied, and not in the mood for discoursing with companions of my nature.  Moreover, there is a sort of unhappi-.ness which not only depresses, but corrodes-and that, I fear,
is your portion.  Will pity do. you ally good, Lina. If it
will, take some from Shirley: she offers largely, and warrant4
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 toward
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 can not 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 
in ai~ection is no pain and. no fire-only sustenance and balm.
I am supported and soothed when you-that is, you onlyare near, Shirley.  Do you believe me now?"
"I am always easy of belief when the creed pleases me.
-We really are friends, then, Lina, in spite of the black
eclipse?"
";We really are," returned the other, drawing Shirley
toward her, and making her sit down, " chance what may.".
" Come, then, we will talk of something else than tho
Troubler."  But at this moment the rector came in, and the
"something else" of which Miss Keeldar 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
jp)rivate conscience, you.must understand, but my landed
proprietor and lord-of-the-manor conscience.  I have got into. the clutch of' an eagle with iron talons.  I have fallen under a
stern influence, which I wcaree]y approve, blut can not resist




tI~EIKS TO BE SAVED  t3Y WORKS.             235
Something will be done ere long, I fear, which it by no nmeans
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
Ainley, to step up to Fieldhead: I have some notion of putting myself under her tuition-won't she have a precious
pupil?  Drop a hint to her, Lina, that, though a well
meaning, I am rather a neglected character, and mnen she
will feel less scandalized 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 bank-notes, 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 MIrs. Gill, the cook, and had
sent that person away with a notion that her (Shirley's) brain
was certainly 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,
nuch 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 perquisite whatever.  I know we never get up illuminations at Fieldhead, 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; carnivorous I am not, nor is M3rs. Pryor, nor is Mrs.
Gill herself, yet I only hemmed and opened my eyes a little
wide when I saw butchers' bills whose figures seemed to prove
that fact —falsehood, I mean.  Caroline, you may laugh at
lae, but you can't chanlle me.    am a poltroon on certain




2;36                  SHIIRLEY.
iuints —l feel it.  There is a base alloy of moral cewardic
ill 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."
"Shirley, what fit 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; I am  never nervous about
danger.  I was not startled from  self-possession when Mr.,Wynne's great red bull rose with a bellow before my face, as
I was crossing the cowslip-lea alone, stooped his begrimed,
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 strength of mind on certain subjects,
Caroline; you, whom no 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 Briarfield poor are badly off —-they must
be helped.  What ought I to do, think you, Lina?  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, freehanded 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 Ainley yourself: to Miss Ainley 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 surf.
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 Briarfield; some  of my own




SEEKS TO BE SAVED  BY IVORKlS.               237
oottagers are in wretchcd circumstancDs-!- must and will help
them."
"Some people say we shouldn't give alms to the poor,
Shirley."
"They are great fools fcr 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 as we
can, without heeding in the 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 some day be crying to Heaven against me.  For,
after all, if political incendiaries come here to kindle conflagration in the neighborhood, and my property is attacked,
I shall defend it like a tigress-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
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 fierily.  Let them  meddle
with Robert, or Robert's mill, or Robert's interests, and I
shall hate them. At present I am no patrician, nor do I regard the poor round 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,nsolence."
"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 RLobert, 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, Lia-, thlouglth your eyes don't flash, they glow




238                   SII RLEY.
Yr1ou drop your lids; bhut i  &aw a kienled spatri.  ilowuvtl
i s not yet come to fighting   What I want to do is, to
ln(CCe/t mischief.  I can not fblgct, either day or night, that
these emrbil red feelings of the poor against the rich have
oeca generatedl in suffBring.  They would neither hate nor
envy us if they did not deem us so much happier than them-selves. To allay this sufllringf, and thereby lessen this hate,
let me, out of my abundance, give abundantly; and that the
donation may go farther, let it be made wisely.  To that intent, we must introduce some clear, calm, practical sense into
our councils; so go, and fetch BMiss Ainley."
Without another word, Caroline put on her bonnet and de
parted. 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 herand 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 Ainley, but
of administrative energy, of executive activity, she had none.:She- would subscribe her own modest mite to a charitable
object willingly, secret almsgiving 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 unavailing
conferences, which could only remind her of her own deficiencies, and do no good.
It was a bright day for Miss Ainley, when she was sum
rmoned to Fieldhead to deliberate on projects so congenial to
her-when she was seated with all honor and deference at a
table, with paper, pen, ink, and-what was best of all-cash
before her, and required to draw up a regular plan fobr admin
istering relief to the destitute poor of Briarfield   She, who
knew them all, had studied their wants, had again and again
felt in what way they might best be succored, could the
means of succor only be found, was fully competent to the
undertaking, and a meek exultation gladdened iher kind heart
as she felt herself able to answer clearly and promptly the
eager questions put oy the two young girls; as she showed
theml incher answers how much and what serviceable knowiedge'she had acquiced of the condition of he-, fellow-ceatrures,
around her.




SEEKS 10 BE SAVED BY WORKS.'239
Shirley placed at her disposal 3(001., and at sight of the
money Miss Ainley's eyes filled with joyful tears; for she 1iready 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. Helstone, Dr. Boultby, Mr. tall, must be
consulted; for not only must Briarfield be relieved, but Whinbury and Nunnely.  It would, she averred, be presumption
in her to take a single step unauthorized by them.
The clergy were sacred beings in Miss Ainley's eyes; no
matter what might be the insignificance of' the individual,
his station made him holy..The very curates-who, in their
trivial arrogance, were hardly worthy to tie her patten-strings,
or carry her cotton umbrella, or check woolen shawl-she, il
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 surplice covered
a multitude of sins.
Shirley, 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 became their years and
capacity.
It was with some horror Miss Ainley heard this language.
Caroline, however, interposing with a mild word or two in
praise of Mr. Sweeting, calmed her again. Sweeting was,
indeed, her own favorite.  She endeavored to respect Messrs.
Malone and Donne; but the slices of spunge-cake, or glasses
of cowslip or primrose wine, she had at different times adxinistered to Sweetinhg, when he came to see her in her iittleo




240                   SHIRLEY,
cottage, were ever offered with sentlr: ents of t:uly motherly
regard. The same innocuous collation she had once present,
ed to Malone; but that personage evinced such open scorn
of the offering, she had never ventured to renew it.  To
Donne 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 Ainley 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 Keeldar
interdicted this, and proposed, as an amendment, to collect
the clergy in a small select reunion that evening at Fieldhead. Miss Ainley was to meet them, and the plan was to
be discussed in full privy council.
Shirley managed to get the senior priestlhood together as
cordingly; 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. Boultby and Mr.
llelstone.  The first was a stubborn old'Welshman, hot,
opinionated, and obstinate, but, withal, 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 IRelstone; and it cost her
nlo trouble to be quite delightful to them.  She took them
round the garden; she gathered them flowers; she was like
a kind daughter to them.  Mr. Hall she left to Caroline, or,
lather, it was to Caroline's care Mr. Hall consigned himself:
He generally sought Caroline in every party where she and
he happened to be. He was not in general a lady's man,
though all ladies liked him: something of a book-worm he
was, near-sighted, 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 piety, won him friends in every grade: his
poor clerk and sexton 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:
buingl himse. a plain mann —-plaia in aspect, plai n in maPr.nc'a




8 EEKS  rTO BE SAVED BY WORKS.            241
plain in speech-lihe seemed to fear their dash, elegance,, and
airs.  But Miss Helstone had neither dash nor airs, and her
native elegance was of a very quiet order-quiet as the beauty
of' a ground-loving hedge-flower. He was a fluent, cheerful
agreeable talker.  Caroline could talk, too, in -a tte-ad-tt'e:
Elhe liked Mr. Hall to come and take the seat next her in a
party, and thus secure her from  Peter Augustus Malone,
Joseph Donne, or John Sykes; and Mr, Hall never failed to
avail himself of this privilege when he possibly could.  Such
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 yeart
old, slightly bald, and slightly gray, and nobody ever said ox
thought he was likely to be married to Miss Helstone. Noi
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'onlsidered 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 fbr him was mixed with a sort of filial
respect; he could not have brought himself to attempt to
give another color to her sentiments, and his serene mind
could glass a fair image without feeling its depths troubled by
the reflection.
A When Miss Ainley arrived, she was made kindly welcome
by every one: IVMrs. 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-maidsyet which had its own quiet value, as many a suffering and
friendless human being knew.
Shirley opened the business and showed the plan.
" I know the hand which drew up that," said MIr. Hall,
glancing at Miss Ainley, and smiling benignantly: his approbation was won at once. Boultby heard and deliberated will:
bent brow and protruded under lip: his consent he considered
too weighty to be given in a hurry.  Helstone glanced sharply round with an alert, suspicious expression, as if he apprehended that female craft -was at work, and that something in




242                   SHIRLEY.
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," said she, carelessly; " it is only,Ln outline-a mere suggestion; you, gentlemen, are requested,
to draw up rules of your own."
And she directly fetched her writing-case, smiling queerly
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 Helstone, begged permission to install him in it. For a minute he was a little
stiff, and stood wrinklinig his copper-colored 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 arm led; your little
female manceuvres don't blind me."
"Oh!" said Shirley, dipping the pen in the ink, and putting
it into his hand, "you must regard me as Captain Keeldar
to-day. This is quite a gentleman's affair-yours and mine
slntirely, doctor (so she had dubbed the rector).  The ladies
there are only to be our aids-de-camp, 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 gray pates 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-an even minute acquaintance with their separate
wants. Each rector knew where clothing was needed, where
food would be most acceptable, where money could be bestowed with a probability of it being judiciously laid out.
Wherever their memories fell short, Miss Ainley 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 usefiul, 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




SEEKS TO BEF SAVED  BY WORKS.                243
list of cases making cut, 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 rarely 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-that take
all for what it seems: thousands, knowing this, keep their
eyelids drooped, on 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 sleepy, secretly on the alert,
and I knew by their expression-an expression which chilled
my blood, it was in that quarter so wondrously unexpectedthat for years they had been accustomed to silent soul-reading. The world called the owner of these blue eyes " bonne
petite femme" (she was not an Englishwoman): I learned
her nature afterward-got it off by heart-studied it in its
farthest, most hidden recesses-she was the finest, deepest,
subtlest schemer in Europe.'When all was at length settled to Miss Keeldar'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 501.
each, she ordered supper to be served; having previously
directed Mrs. Gill to exercise her utmost skill in the preparation of this repast.  Mr. Hall was no bon-vivant: he was
naturally an abstemious man, indifferent to luxury; but
3Boultby and llelstone both liked good cookery; the recherche
supper, consequently, put them into excellent humor: they
did justice to it, though in a gentlemanly way-not in the
mode Mr. Donne would have done, had he been present.  A
glass of fine wine was likewise tasted, with discerning, though
most decorous relish.  Captain Keeldar was complimented
on his taste; the compliment charmed him: it had been his
aim to gratify and satisfy his priestly guests: fhe had succeed
cd, and was radiant with glee.




244                   8HIIR LE.
CIHAPTER XV.
Mr. DONNE S EXODUS.
Tii next day Shirley expressed to Caroline how d]lighted
shie 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 judiciouslyconcocted 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 naivete of children
about food, and one likes to please them: that is, when they
show the becoming, decent self-government of our admirable
rectors. I watch Moore 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 Carofine?  You have seen more of him that  I."
" It is not at any rate that of nly uncle and Dr. Boultby,"
returned Caroline smiling.  She always felt a sort of shy
pleasure in following Miss Keeldar'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 RIobert 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 his presently flash on you. HIe is never off'
his guard: he won't give you an advantage: even when he
does not look at you, his thoughts seem to be busy among
your own thoughts, tracing your words and actions to their
source, contemplating your motives at his ease.  Oh! I know
that sort of character, or something in the same style: it is
one that piques me singularly-how does it affect you?"
This question was a specimen of one of Shirlev's sharp,
sudden turns: Caroline used to be fluttered by them at firs;t




MR. DONNE'S EXODUS.                  245
but she had now got into the way of parrying these homethrusts like a little Quakeress.
" Pique you?  In what way does it pique you 1" she said.
"IHere he comes! suddenly exclaimed Shirley, breaking
off, starting up, and running to the window.  "H Iere 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, Lina; and you may take your choice: I hope
I am generous enough. Listen to Tartar!"
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, amid whose hollow space the
deep bark resounded formidably. A growl, more terrible than
the bark-mrnenacing as muttered thunder-succeeded.
Listen!" again cried Shirley, laughing.  " You would
think that the prelude to a bloody onslaught: they will be
frightened: they don't know old Tartar 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 whip.  Immediately there was a yell-a scutter —d
run-a positive tumult.
" Oh! lMalone! Malone!"
"Down' down! down!" cried the high voice.
"He is really worrying them!" exclaimed Shirley. "They
have struck him: a blow is not what he is used to, and will
not take."
Out she ran: a gentleman was fleeing up the oak staircase, making for refuge in the gallery or chambers in hot
haste; another was backing fast to the stair.foot, wildly
flourishing a knotty stick, at the same time reiterating"Down! down! down!" while the tawny dog bayed, 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',tas already safe in a bed-room: he held the door against his
L,




246                   SHIR RLEY.
fellow —nothing so merciless as terror: but the other fugitive
struggled hard; the door was about to yield to his strength.
"Gentlemen," was uttered in Miss Keeldar's silvery but
vibrating tones, "spare my locks, if you please.  Calm yourselves-come down! Look at Tartar —he won't harm a cat."
She was caressing the said Tartar: he lay crouched at her
feet, his fore-paws stretched out, his tail still in threatening
agitation, his nostrils snorting, his bull-dog eyes conscious of a
dull fire. IHIe was an honest, phlegmatic, stupid, but stubborn
canine character: he loved his mistress, and Johni-the man
who fed hirn-but was mostly indifferent to the rest of the
world: quiet 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 2" continued Shirley, lifting
up her mirth-lit face to the gallery.  "That is not the way to
the oak-parlor: that is Mrs. Pryor's apartment.  Request
your friend, Mr. Donne, 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.  " Really, that
animal alarmed Donne. 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 re-assure him."
"It appears you did: well, come down, if you please.
John" (turning to her man-servant), " go up-stairs and liberate
Mr. Donne. 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.
Tartar seemed to think the visitor's descent effected 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 Tartar,
he would have breathed no more. Forgetting politeness, in
his sullen rage, Malone pushed into the parlor before Miss
Keeldar.  He glanced at Miss Helstone; 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




MR. DONNE'S EXODUS.                  247
he seemcoed as if he would have liked to clutch one,, and gripe
her to death.
However, Shirley took pity; she ceased to laugh; ar.d
C&roline was too true a lady to smile even at any one under
mortification.  Tartar 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 quite himself again. He had come,
indeed, for the express purpose of making himself charming
and fascinating: rough portents had met him 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 purposed to go out like a lamb.
For the sake of air, as it appeared, or perhaps for that of
ready exit, in case of some new emergency arising, he took his
seat-not on the sofa, where Miss Keeldar offered him enthronization, nor yet near the fireside, to which Caroline, by a friend
ly sign, 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
common-place: he sighed deeply, significantly, at the close of
every sentence; he sighed in each pause; he sighed ere he
opened his mouth. At last, finding it desirable to add ease to
hiis 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
cornerwise;'he whipped it open with a waft: again he folded
it in narrower compass: he made of it a handsome band. To
what purpose would he proceed to apply the ligature 7 WVoulL
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
Bat' on the chair with his athletic Irish legs crossed, and tlhese
legs, in tnat attitude, he circled with the bandana, and bound
firinly together. It was evident he felt this device to be worth
an encore: he repeated it more than once, The second per




248                   SHIRLEY.
formance sent Shirley 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 nantling on her
fiatures.  Miss Helstone, indeed, was amused by more than
one point in Peter's demeanor: she was edified at the cornplate though abrupt diversion of his homage from herself te
the heiress: the 50001. he supposed her likeiy one day to in
herit, were not to be weighed in the balance against Miss
Keeldar's estate and Hall. He took no pains to conceal his
calculations and tactics: he pretended to no gradual change
of views; he wheeled about at once: the pursuit of the lessel
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. Donne to descend.  At
length, however, that gentleman appeared: nor, as he presented himself at the oak-parlor door, did he seem in the
slightest degree ashamed or confused —not a whit.  Donne,
indeed, was of that coldly phlegmatic, immovably 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 color mount to his cheek: he had no fire in
his blood, and no modesty in his soul: he was a frontless, arrogant, decorous slip of the common-place: conceited, inane,
insipid: and this gentleman had a notion of wooing Miss
Keeldar! HEe knew no more, however, how to set about the
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
Fieldhead, and he should live very comfortably, have servants
at 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 Keeldar.  I wonder you
should keep such an animal."




MR. DONNE'S EXODUS.                  249
Do yoll, lMr. Donne? Perhaps you will sxonder more.
w'len I tell you I am very fond of him."
I'  should say you are not serious in the assertion.  Can't
anecy a lady ford of that brute-'tis so ugly-a mere carter's
dog —pray hang him."
" Hang what I am fond of?"
"And purchase in his stead some sweetly pooty pug oi
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."
" Tartar frightened you terribly, Mr. Donne, I hope you
won't take any harm."
" That I shall, no doubt. He gave me a turn I shall not
rsoon forget.  WVhen I sor him (such was Mr. Donne's pronunciation) about to spring, I thought I should have fainted."
"Perhaps you did faint in the bed-room-you were a long
time there?"
"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 a falsehood! The dog is there!"
And indeed Tartar walked past the glass-door opening to
the garden, stiff, tawny, and black-muzzled as ever. He still
seemed in bad humor: 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 Shirley, with
that provoking coolness which the owners of formidable-looking dogs are apt to show while their animals are all bristle
and bay. Tartar sprang down the pavement toward the gate,
bellowing " avec explosion."  His mistress quietly opened the
glass-door, and stepped out chirruping to him. His bellow
was already silenced, an,! he was lifting up his huge, blunt
stlpid head to the now callers to be patted.




250                   SHIRLEY.'"What-Tartar, Tartar!" 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 Tartar either, and
Tartar 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 Tartar tookl 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.
Shirley advanced to meet Messrs. 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
benignantly 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 Melancthon.
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 refreshed the girls' cheeks,
and gracefully disheveled 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
KeTedar gathered handfuls of the profusely-blooming flowers,
whose perfume filled the inclosure: she gave some to Caroline,
telling her to choose a nosegay for Mr. IHall; and with her
lap filled with delicate and splendid blossoms, Caroline sat
down onl 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 Donne past
his-dread enemy Tartar, who, with his nose on his fore-paws,
lay snoring under the meridian sun. Donne was not grateful:
he never was grateful for kindness and attention; but he was
glad of the safeguard.  Miss Keeldar, desirous of being irmn




MR  DONNE'S EXODUS.                  251
partial, offered the curates flowers: they accepted them with
native awkwardness. Malone seemed specially at a loss, when
a bouquet filled one hand, while his shillelagh occupied the
other. Donne's " Thank you!" was rich to hear; it was the
most fatuous and arrogant of sounds, implying that he considered this offering an 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 smalt,
sensible, little man, as he was: putting it gallantly and nao
tily into his button-hole.
As a rewxlA for his good manners, Miss Keeldar beckoning
Ilim apart, gave him some commission, which made his eyes
sparkle with glee. Away he flew, round by the court-yard to
the kitchen: no need to give him directions; he was always
at home every where. Ere long he re-appeared, 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 parlor-maid-Miss
Keeldar kept no footman-came out, bearing 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 prejudiced in nothing his faithful allegiance to the
m-agnificent Dora Sykes.
The repast turned out a very merry one.  Donne and
Malone, indeed, contributed but little to its vivacity, the
chief part they played in it being what concerned the knifb,
fork, and wine-glass; but where four such natures as Mr.
Hall, David 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 Whitsuntide was approaching when the grand United
Sunday-School tca-dinking and procession of the three parishes




252                   SH IRLE Y.
of Briarfield, WYhinbury, and Nunnely were to take place
Caroline he knew would be at her post as teacher, he said,
and he hoped Miss Keeldar would not be wanting: he hoped
she would make her first public appearance among them at
that tilme.  Shirley was not the person to miss an occasion
of this sort: she liked festive excitement, a gathering of hap.
piness, a concentration and combination of pleasant details,
a throng of glad faces, a muster of elated hearts: she told Mr.
IHall 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, Deo volente," said he. "I have occupied
the place on her right hand at these monster tea-drinkings fox
the last six years," he proceeded, turning to Miss Keeldar.
"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 cups shaking in the little hand, and
the overflowing teapot filled too full from the urn.  I camo
to her aid, took a seat near her, managed the urn and the
slop-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 rne well; inasmuch 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 Keeldar, 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 Coroline.
" And always sat at her table, near her tray, and handed the
cups-that is the extent of my service.  The next thing I doa




MR. DON NE'S EXODUS.                 253
for her will be to marry her some day to sorne curate or mnillowner: but mind, Caroline, I shall inquire about the bridegroom's character, and if he is not a gentleman likely to render
happy the little girl who walked with me hand-in-hand over
Nunnely 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 a pleasure, and her brother fil
a care, and is content.  If ever you want a home; if the day
should come when Briarfield rectory is yours no longer, come
to Nunnely 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 nosegay 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 Rev. Cyril Hall, my friend.  May -  18-."
The IRev. 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 Keeldar," 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' exaltation' in the
old, gray-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 any thing.
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;
bargaret told me so, and I know what pleases him."'"rhat you should be good and happy?  Yes; that Is one




254                    11SHIRLEY.
of my greatest 1 leasures.  May God long prserve to you the
blessings of peace and inrocence! By which phrase, I mean
urmopairative innocence; for, in His sight, I am well aware,
ntone are pure.  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 there temptations, inconsistencies,
propensities, even we blush to recognize. And it is not youth,
Lnor 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, remember that,
in the sight of her Maker, Mary Ann Ainley-a woman whom
neither glass nor lips have ever panegyrized-is fairer and
better than either of you.  She is, indeed," he added, after a
pause-" she is, indeed.  You young things -wrapt up in
yourselves and in earthly hopes-scarcely live as Christ lived:
perhaps you can not 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 Redecemer's steps.'"
Here the harsh voice of iDonne broke in on the mild tones
of lMr. Hall"Ahem!" he began, clearing his throat evidently for a
speech of some importance.  "Ahem! Miss Keeldar, your
attention an 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 Donne, 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 almoner."
" To beg of you a subscription to a school.  I and Doctor
Boultby intend to erect one in the hamlet of Ecclefigg, which
is under our vicarage of VWhinbury.  The Baptists have got
possession of it; they have a chapel there, and we want to
dispute the ground."
" But I have nothing to do with Ecclefigg: I possess nu
property theec "




MR. DONNE S EXODUS                   255
"What does that signify?  You're a churchwoman, ain't
yIou?"
" Admirable creature!" mutter (d Shirley, under her breath.
"exquisite address! fine style! What raptures he excites iii
me!"  Then aloud, "I am a churchwoman, certainly."
" Then you can't refuse to contribute in this case.  The
population of Ecclefigg are a parcel of' brutes-we warnt to
civilize them."
" WAho is to be the missionary?"
" Myself, probably."
" You won't fail through lack of sympathy with youy
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.  Sho
put down her name for 51.: after the 3001. she had lately
given, and the many smaller sums she was giving constantly,
it was as much as she could at present affbrd. Donne looked
at it, declared the subscription "shabby," and clamorously
demanded more.  Miss Keeldar flushed up with some indignation and more astonishment.
s" 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.
"In the south," went on Donne, "a lady with a thousan/d
a year would be ashamed to give five pounds for a publio
object.
Shirley, so rarely haughty, looked so now.   -Ier slight
frame became nerved; her distinguished face quickened with
scorn.
"Strange remarks!" said she: "most inconsiderate.  Re
proach in return for bounty, is misplaced."
" Bounty!   Do you call five pounds bounty?"
" I do; and bounty which, had I not given it to Doctor
Boultby's intended school, of the erection of which I approve,
and in no sort to his curate, who seems ill-advised in his man
net of applying for, or, rather, extorting subscriptions —bounty,
1 repeat, vwhich, but for this consideration, I should instantly
rec;i; I."




256                   S H IRL EY.
Donne was thick-skinncd-he did not feel all or half that
the tone, air, glance of the speaker expressed —he knew not
on what ground he stood.
" Wretched place-this Yorkshire," he went on, " I coulrs
never have fbrmed an idear of the country had I not seen it.
And the people-rich and poor-what a set! IHow corse
and uncultivated! They would be scouted in the south."
Shirley leaned forward on the table, her nostrils dilating a
little, her taper fingers interlaced and conipressing each other
hard.
"The rich," pursued the infatuated  and unconscious
Donne, "are a parcel of misers-never living as persons
with their incomes ought to live: you scarsley-(you must
excuse Mr. Donrne's pronunciation, reader; it was very choice
-he considered it genteel, and prided himself on his south.
ern accent; northern ears received with singular sensations
his utterance of certain words)-you scarsley ever see a
fam'ly where a propa carriage or a regla butla is kep; and
as to the poor —just 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 shirt-sleeves
and wool-combers' aprons, the women in mob-caps and bedgowns. They pos'tively deserve that one should turn a mad
cow in an-ong them  to rout their rabble-ranks-he! lhe
What fun it would be!"
"aThere-you have reached the climax," said Shirley.
quietly.  "You have reached the climax," she repeated,
turning her glowing glance toward him.  "You can not ge
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.
"Wallk through," she said, austerely, " and pretty quickly,
and set foot on this pavement no more."
Donne was astounded.  He had thought all the time he
was showing himself off to high advantage, as a lofty-souled
person of' the first " ton"-he imagined he was producing a
crushing impression.  Had he not expressed disdain of every
thing in Yorkshire I What more conclusive proof could be
given that he was bl tter than any thing there?  And yet




MR. DONNE'S EXODUS.                  257
here was he about to be turned like a dog out of a Yollishira
garden! Where, under such circumstances, was the "concatenation accordingly?"
"R 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, Tartar 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 Donne made his
exodus; the heiress sweeping him a deep courtesy 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.
Ere long, the little party broke up: Miss Keeldar's ruffled
and darkened brow, curled lip, and incensed eye, gave no
invitation to further social enjoyment.
CHAPTER XVI.
WIIJTSUNTIDE.
TrE fulnd prospered.  By dint of Miss Keeldar's example,
the three rectors' vigorous exertions, and the efficient though
quiet aid of their spinster and spectacled lieutenants, Mary
Ann Ainley 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
oeen committed in the three parishes.  Shirley was sanguinE
that the evil she wished to avert was almost escaped; than
the threatened storm was passing over: with the approach
of summer she felt certain tha, trade would inul'ove —it




258                  SH IIR L E Y.
always did; and then this weary war could not last $brever;
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,
G6rard Moore, whenever 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
Hollow's mill entirely on speculation: I sell nothing; there
is no market for my goods.  I manufacture 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 tranquillity of the neighborhood-as to
the permanent good effect of your charitable fund-I doubt.
Eleemosynary relief never yet tranquilized the working-classes
-it never made them grateful; it is not in human nature
that it should. I suppose, were all things ordered aright,
they ought not to be in a position to need that humiliating
relief, and this they feel; we should feel it were we 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 corre-,To!tidence with the disaffiected elsewhere: Nottigllfham is one




W II TS UNTIDE.                   25
of their hlead-quarters, Manchester is another, ]3irnlingllanl 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 threaten 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 the 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 seraph or 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, deeppiled 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 reign of the summer sun.  That sun rose
broad on Whitsuntide: the gathering of the schools was signalized by splendid weather.
Whit-Tuesday was the great day, in preparation for which
Lhe two large school-rooms of Briarfield, built by the present
rector, chiefly at his own expense, were cleaned out, whitewashed, repainted, and decorated with flowers and evergreens
-some from the rectory-garden, two cart-loads from Field.
head, and a wheelbarrowful from the more stingy domain of
De Walden, the residence of Mr. Wynne.  In these school
rooms twenty tables, each calculated to accommodate twenty
guests, were laid out, surrounded with benches, and covered
with white cloths: above them were suspended at least some
twenty cages, containing as many canaries, accordl; g to a




260                   S IIHIRLEY.
Efncy of the district, specially cherished by Mr. Ilelstone's
clerk, who delighted in the piercing song of these birds, and
knew that amidst  mnfinsion of tongues they alWays caroled
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 oneo
o'clock the troops were to come in; at two they were to be
marshaled; till four they were to parade the parish; then
came the feast and afterward the meeting, with music and
speechifying in the church.
Why Briarfield was chosen for the point of rendezvous —
the scene of the fete-should be explained.  It was not because it was the largest or most populous parish-Whinbury
far outdid it in that respect; nor because it was the oldest —
antique as were the hoary church and rectory,:Nunnely's lowroofed temple and mossy parsonage, buried both in co6val
oaks, outstanding sentinels of Nunnwood, were older still: it
was simply because Mr. Helstone willed it so, and Mr. ielstone's will was stronger than that of Boultby or Hall; the
former could not, the latter would not, dispute a point of precedence with their resolute and imperious brother: they let
him lead and rule.
This notable anniversary had always hitherto been a trying
lay to Caroline Helstone, 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. Hall, she would have appeared unsupported.  Obliged 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 fbr a mixed multitude of ladies and gentlemen; and to
do all this without the countenance of mother, aunt, or other
chaperon —she, meantime, being a nervous person, who mortally feared publicity-it will be comprehended that under
these circumstances, she trembled at the approach of Whitsuntide.
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
Keceldar was better, in her single sel; than a'host of ordhinltry




WI ILTSUNTIDE.                    261
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
tryste: she often had a careless way of lingering behind time,
and Caroline knew her uncle would not wait a second for any
one: at the moment of the church-clock tolling two, the bells
would clash out, and the march begin. She must look after
Shirlev, then, in this matter, or her expected companion
would fail her.
Whit-Tuesday saw her rise almost with the sun.  She,
Fanny, and Eliza were busy the whole morning arranging
the rectory-parlors in first-rate company order., and setting out
a collation of cooling refreshments-wine, fruit, cakes —on the
dining-room side-board. Then she had to dress in her freshest
and fairest attire of white muslin; the perfect fineness 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 cambric-bands in a handsome case-was
tied by the dexterous fingers of Fanny, who took no little pleasure in arraying her fair young mistress for the occasion; hei
simple bonnet had been trimmed to correspond with her sash
her pretty but inexpensive scarf of white crape suited her,
dress.  WVhen ready she formed a picture, not bright enough
to dazzle, but fair enough to interest; not brilliantly striking',
bult very delicately pleasing: a picture in which sweetness of
tint, purity of air, and grace of mien, atoned for the absence
of rich coloring and magnificent contour.  What her brown
eye and clear forehead showed of her mind, was in keeping
with her dress and face-modest, gentle, and though pensive,
harmonious.  It appeared that neither lamb nor dove need
ftar her, buet 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 aMiss Ainley,
now putting on her best black gown andI Quaker-drab shawl
and bonnet inl her own narrow cottage-cIamber.




262                    SHIRLEY.
Away Caroline went, across some very sequestered fields and
through some quite hidden lanes, to Fieldhead.  She glided
quickly under the green hedges anlt  across the gieener leas.
There was no dust- no moisture- to soil the hem of her staintess garment, 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 Fieldhead, and pene.
trated to Miss Keeldar's dressing-room.
It was well she had come, or Shirley 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 rerobing her.  Shirley, 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 united 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 Shirley did- -but a very
lovely picture of that tiresome quality.
She presented quite a contrast to Caroline: there was:;tyle 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,
lbut gracefully; the wreath on her bonnet crowned her well;
-he 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,
hurried her down-stairs, 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 Mliss Helstone's promptitude, they arrived int
good time.  While yet the trees hid the church, they heard
thb  boll tolling a measured butt urgent summons for all to as




W H IT S U N TIDE..o3
semble; the trooping in of numbers, the trampling Df many
steps, and murmuring of many voices, were likewise audible.
From a rising-ground, they presently saw, on the Whinburyroad, the Whinbury school approaching: it numbered five
hundred souls.  The rector and curate, Boultby and Donnb,
headed it: the former, looming large in full canonicals, walking, as became a beneficed priest, under the canopy of a shovelhat, Ewith the dignity of an ample corporation, the embellishment of the squarest and vastest 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 his
shovel-hat with a dogmatical wag toward his aid-de-camp.
That aid-de-camp-Donne, to-wit-narrow as the line of his
shape 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 some
what short, strapless trowsers, and his square-toed shoes.
Walk on, Mr. Donne! You have undergone scrutiny. You
think you look well-whether the white and purple figures
watching you from yonder hill think so, is another question.
These figures come running down when the regiment has
marched by: the church-yard 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 Shirley, now gazing with pleasure on this welldressed 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: glad that her money, example, and influence have really-substantially-benefited those around her.
She can not be charitable like Miss Ainley-it is not in hex
nature': it relieves her to feel that there is another way of
being charitable, practicable for other characters, and under
Other circumstances.




264                   SHIRLEY.
Caroline, too, is pleased; for she also has done good in hler
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 Ainley's example, in giving her time and her industry
to sew for the children.
Not only is the church-yard full, but the rectory-garden is
also thronged: pairs and parties of ladies and gentlemen are
seen walking among the waving lilacs and laburnums.  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. In the parson's croft, 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 among 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 superintendence.  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 court-house, to the cooking of a dinner, lie still advocated the lordly, liberal, and
effective.  Miss Keeldar was like him in this respect, 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 wont,
she moved through the three parlors, conversed and smiled,
absolutely spoke once or twice ere she was spoken to, and, in
short, seenmed a new creature. It was Shirley's presence which
thus transformed her: the view of Bliss Keeldar's air and
manner did her a world of good.  Shirley had no fear of her
kind; no tendency to shrink from, to avoid it.  All human
beings, men, women, or children, whorn 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 hiim
good and an acquisition, and to treat him accordingly.  This
(tispositionll made her a general favorite, tir it robbed her very




W HITSUNTIDE.                     265
raillery of its sting, and gave her serious or smiling conversation a happy charm: nor did it diminish the value of her intiunate friendship, which was a distinct thing froln this social
benevolence, depending, indeed, on quite a different part of her
cilaracter. Miss Helstone was the choice of her afl-ection and
intellect; the Misses Pearson, Sykes, Wynne, &c., &c., only
the profiters by her good-nature and vivacity.
Donne 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 manl was thei seen. He knew neither
how to decline the advance with digrnity, as one whose 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 expe.
rience that feeling on encountering his chastiser: he was not
vigorous enough in evil to be actively malignant-he merely
passed by sheepishly, with a rated, scowling look.  Nothing
could ever again reconcile him to his enemy; while no passion
of resentment, for even sharper and more ignominious inflictions, could his lymphatic nature know.
" He was not worth a scene!" said Shirley to Caroline.
"What a fool I was! To revenge on poor Donne his silly
spite at Yorkshire, is something like crushing a gnat for attacking the hide of a rhinoceros.  Had I been a gentleman,
i believe I should have helped him off the premises by dint of
physical force: I am glad now I only employed 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 bad
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 " grande tenue," gloved and
scented, with his hair oiled andcl 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 who, after this, could dare to say that Feter was
aot a lady's man?  He had gathered and he hbad given
flowers: he had offered a sentimenta]-a poetic tribute at tbp




266                   SHIRLEY
shrine of Love or Marnmon. Hercules hoijling 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
a husky chuckle of self felicitation; then he bethought hinmself to stop and turn, to ascertain, by ocular testimony, that
lie really had presented a bouquet: yes-there were the six
red cabbages on the purple satin lap, a very white hand, with
some gold rings on the fingers, slightly holding them together,
and streaming ringlets, half hiding a laughing face, drooped
over them: only hayf 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 Helstone, too, was smiling. Moreover, he
felt he was seen through, and Peter grew black as a thundercloud.  YWhen Shirley looked up, a fell eye was fastened on
her: Malone, at least, had energy enough to hate: she saw
it in his glance.'; Peter is worth a scene, and shall have it, if he likes, one
dlay," she whispered to her fiiend.
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
fobr the body, ere the march commenced. The large moroccocovered easy chair had been left vacant fbr Dr. Boultby; 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, revered, and, on the
whole, worthy friend, a glass of wine and a plate of macaroons.
Boultby's churchwardens, patrons of the Sunday-school both,
as he insist d on their being, were already beside him; Mrs.
Sykes 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. Boultby, 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: Boultby, in short,
was in his glory, and in a round, sound " voix de poitrine," he
rumbled out *t anks for attentions, and assurances of his toler



WH ITSUNTIDE.                    267
a,ble health,  Of Caroline he took no manner of notice as she
came near, save to accept what she offered: he did not see
her, he never did see her: he hardly knew that such a person
existed.  HI-e saw the macaroons, however, and being fond of
sweets, possessed himself of a small handful thereof. The
wine, Mrs. Boultby 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
Ainley. To him Caroline turned her attention with pleasure.
" What should she bring him. He must not help himselfhe 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 Keeldar: 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 Boultby to his admirers.
A throllig, too, inclosed the rector of Briarfield: twenty or more
pressed round him, and no person was ever more potent in a
circle than old Helstone. The curates, herding together after
their mannner, made a constellation of three lesser planets:
divers young ladies watched them afar ofF, but ventured not
nigh.
Mr. Helstone 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; between every twenty there was an interval.
wherein Helstone posted the teachers in pairs: to the van of
thie armies he summoned" Grace Boultby and Mary Sykes lead out W~hinbury."
" Margaret Hall and Mary Ann Ainley conduct Nunnely."
"Caroline Helstone and Shirley Keeldar head Briarfield."
Then again he gave command"Mr. Donne to Whinbury; Mr. Sweeting to Nunnely;
iMr. Malone to Briarfield."
And these gentlemen stepped up before the lady-generals.
The rectors passed to the full fiont-the parish clerks fell
to the extreme rear; Helstone lifted his shovel-hat; in an ini




268                    S EH I RL E Y.
stant out clashied the eight bells in the tower, loud swell ed the
sounding bands, flute spake 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 it cloudless, the wind tossed the
tree-boughs above it, and the twelve hundred children, and
one hundred and forty adults, of which it was composed, trod
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 
CHAPTER XVII.
TIIE SCHOOL-FEAST.
NOT on combat bent, nor of foemen in search, was this
priest-led and woman-officered company; yet their music
played martial tunes, and-to judge by the eyes and carriage
of' some, Mliiss Keeldar, for instance-these sounds awoke, if
not a martial, yet a longing spirit.  Old Helstone, turning by
chance, looked into her face, and he laughed, and she laughed
at him.
" There is no battle in prospect," he said; "our country
does not want us to fight for it; no foe or tyrant is queAtioning
or threatening our liberty. There is nothing to be done-we
are only taking a walk.  Keep your hand on the reins, cap-.
tain, and slack the fire of that spirit: it is not wanted-the
more's the pity."
" Take your own advice, doctor," was Shirley's response.
To Caroline she murmureld, " I'll borrow of imagination what
reality will not give me.  We are not soldiers-bloodshed is
Kiot my desire; or if we are, we are soldiers of the Cross.




THE SCHOOL FEAST.                    269
Time has rolled back some hundreds of years, and we are
bound on a pilgrimage to Palestine.  But no —that is too
visionary. I need a sterner dream: we are Lowlanders of
Scotland, following a covenanting captain up into the hills to
hold a meeting out of the reach of persecuting troopers. We
know that battle may follow prayer; and, as we believe that
in the Worst issue of battle, heaven must be our reward, we
are ready and willing to redden the peat-moss with our blood
That music stirs my soul —it wakens all my life-it makes
my heart beat: not with its temperate, daily pulse, but with
a new, thrilling vigor. I almost long for danger-for a faith,
a land, or, at least, a lover to defend."
" Look, Shirley," interrupted Caroline. " YWhat is that red
speck above Stilbro' Brow?  You have keener sight than I,
just turn your eagle eye to it."
Miss Keeldar looked.  " I see," she said; then added presently, " there is a line of red. They are soldiers-cavalry
soldiers," she subjoined quickly.  " They ride fast; there are
six of them.  They will pass us: no —they have turned off
to the right. They saw our procession, and avoid it by making
a circuit.  Wahere are they going 2"
"Perhaps they are only exercising their horses."
"Perhaps so. Wre see them no more now."
Mr. Helstone here spoke.
" We shall pass through Royd-lane, to reach Nunnely Common by a short cut," said he.
And into the straits of Rloyd-lane they accordingly defiled
It was very narrow-so narrow that only two could walk
abreast without falling into the ditch which ran along each
side. They had gained the middle of it, when excitement
became obvious in the clerical commanders. Boultby's spectacles and Helstone's Rheoboam were agitated; the curates
nudged each other.  Mr. Hall turned to the ladies and
smiled.
" What is the matter?" was the demand.
He pointed with his staff to the end of the lane before them.
Lo and behold! another-an opposition procession was there
entering, headed also by men in black, and followed also, as
they could now hear, by music.
"Is it our double i" asked Shirley-" our manifold wraith b
gI ee is a card turned up:"
M*'




270                   SHIRLEY.
" If you wanted a battle, you ar3 likely to get one-at least
of loeks," whispered Caroline, laughing.
"They shall not pass us!" cried the curates, unanimously
-—." we'll not give way!"
"Give way!" retorted H-elstone, sternly, turning round.
"5Wiho talks of giving way?  You, boys, mind what you are
about.  The ladies, I know, will be firm-I can trust them.
There is not a churchwoman here but will stand her ground
against these folks for the honor of the Establishment.  What
does Miss Keeldar say?"
" She asks what is it?"
" The Dissenting and Methodist schools, the Baptists, Inde.
pendents, and Wesleyans, joined in unholy alliance, and turning purposely into this lane, with the intention of obstructing
our march and driving us back."
- "Bad manners!" said Shirley; " and I hate bad manners.
Of cou-rsE, they must have a lesson."
" A lesson in politeness," suggested Mr. Hall, who was ever
for peace; "not an example of rudeness."
Old Helstone moved on.  Quickening his step, he marched
some yards in advance of his company.  IHe had nearly
reached the other sable.leaders, when he who appeared to act
as the hostile commander-in-chief-a large, greasy man, with
black hair combed flat on his forehead-called a halt.  The
procession paused-he drew fortV a hymn-book, gave out a
verse, set a tune, and they all struck up the most dolorous of
Ianticles.
Helstone signed to his bands: they clashed out with all the
power of brass. He desired them to play " Rule, Britannia,"
and ordered the children to join in vocally, which they did with
enrthusiastic spirit.  The enemy was sung and stormed down
-his psalm quelled; as far as noise went, he was conquered
"Now, follow me!" exclaimed Helstone; "not at a run,
but at a firm, smart pace. Be steady, every child and woman
of you —keep together —hold on by each other's skirts, if ne.essary."
And he strode on with such a determined and deliberate
gait, and was, besides, so well seconded by his scholars and
teachers-who did exactly as he told them, neither running
nor faltering, but marching with cool, solid impetus; the cie
fates, too, being compelled to do the same, as they were




1HE SCHOOL-FEAST.                    271
between t wo fires (Helstone arwl Miss Keelda'), both of \hom
watched any deviation with.ynx-eyed vigilance, and were
ready, the one with his cane, the other with her parasol, to
rebuke the slightest breach of orders, the least independent or
irrefgular demonstration —that the body of Dissenters were
first amazed, then alarmed, then borne down and pressed
back, and at last forced to turn tail and leave the outlet fiom
Royd-lane free. Boultby suffered in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone, between them, held him up, and brought
him through the business, whole in limb, though sorely tried
in wind.
The fat Dissenter who had given out the hymn was left
sitting in the ditch. He was a spirit-merchant by trade, a
leader of the Non-conformists, and, it was said, drank more
water in that one afternoon than he had swallowed for a
twelvemonth before.  Mr. IHall had taken care of Caroline,
and Caroline of him; he and Miss Ainley made their own
quiet comments to each other afterward on the incident.
Miss Keeldar and Mr. Helstone shook hands heartily when
they had fairly got the whole party through the lane.  The
curates began to exult, but Mr. Helstone presently put the
curb on their innocent spirits.  He remarked that they never
had sense to know what to say, and had better hold their
tongues; and he reminded them that the business was none
of their managing.
About half-past three the procession turned back, and at
four once more regained the starting-place.  Long lines of
benches were arranged in the close-shorn fields round the
school; there the children were seated, and huge baskets,
covered up with white cloths, and great smokingr tin vessels,
were brought out. Ere the distribution of good things comrmened, a brief' grace was pronounced by Mr. Hall, and sung
by the children; their young voices sounded melodious, even
touching, in the open air.  Large currant-buns, and hot,
well-sweetened tea, were then administered in the proper
spirit of liberality. No sttinting was permitted on this day,
at least; the rule for each child's allowance being that it
was to have about twice as much as it could possibly eat,
thus leaving a reserve to be carried home for such as age,
sickness, or other impediment, prevented from coming to the
feast.  Buns and beer circulated, meantime, among the mu




272                    8 1 SHIRLEY.
sicians and church-singers; afterward the benches were ret
moved, and they were left to unbend their spirits in licensed
play.
A bell summonel the teachers, patrons, and patronesses to
the school-room.  Miss Keeldar, Miss Helstone, and many
other ladies were already there, glancing over the arrangement of their separate trays and tables.  Most of the female
servants of the neighborhood, together with the clerks', the
singers', and the musicians' wives, had been pressed into the
service of the day as waiters; each vied with the other in
smartness and daintiness of dress, and many handsome forms
were seen among the younger ones.  About half a score
were cutting bread and butter, another half-seore supplying
hot water, brought from the coppers of the rector's niitchen.
Thile profusion of' flowers and evergreens decorating the white
walls, the show of silver teapots and bright porcelain on the
tables, the active figures, blithe faces, gay dresses fiitting
about every where, formed altogether a refreshing and lively
spectacle.  Every body tallred, not very loudly, but merrily,
and the canary birds sang shrill in their high-hung cages.
Caroline, as the rector's niece, took her place at one of the
three first tables; Mrs. Boultby and Margaret Hall officiated
at the others. At these tables the elite of the company were
to be entertained; strict rules of equality not being more-in
fashion at Briarfield than elsewhere. Miss I-elstone removed
her bonnet and scarf, that she might be less oppressed with
the heat; her long curls, falling on her neck, served almost in
place of a vail, and for the rest, her muslin dress was fashioned modestly as a nun's robe, enabling her thus to dispense
with the encumbrance of a shawl.
The room was filling.  Mr. Hall had taken his post beside
Caroline, who now, as she re-arranged the cups and spoons
before her, whispered to him in a low voice remarks on the
events of the day.  Ie looked a little grave about what had
taken place in Rtoyd-lane, and she tried to smile him out of
his seriousness.  Miss Keeldar sat near; for a wonder, neither laughing nor talking; on the contrary, very still, and
gazing round her vigilantly: she seemed afraid lest some in
truder should take a seat she apparently wished to reserve
next her own; ever and anon she spread her satin dress over
an lnadue portion of the bench, or laid her gloves or her em




THE SCHOOL-FEAST                      273
broi1rtred handkerchief upon it.  Caroline noticed this nmanege at last, and asked her what friend she expected. Shirley
bent toward her, almcst touched her ear with her rosy lips,
and whispered with a musical softness that often character
ized her tones, when what she said tended even remotely to
stir some sweet, secret source of feeling in her heart"I expect Mr. Moore: I saw him last night, and I made
hiln promise to come with his sister, and to sit at our table:
he won't fail me, I feel certain, but I apprehend his coming
too late, and being separated from us.  Here is a fresh batch
arriving; every place will be taken —provoking!".Tn fact, AMr. WVynne, the magistrate, his wife, his son, and
his two daughters, now entered in high state.  They were
Briarfield gentry: of course their place was at the first table,
and being conducted thither, they filled up the whole remainilug space.  For Miss Keeldar's comfort, Mr. Sam Wynne
inducted himself' into the very vacancy she had kept for
Moore, planting himself solidly on her gown, her gloves, and
her handkerchief.  Mr. Sam was one of the objects of her
aversion; and the more so because he showed serious symptoms of an aim at her hand. The old gentleman, too, had
publicly declared that the Fieldhead estate and the De WValden estate were delightfully contagiozts —a malapropism which
rumor had not failed to repeat to Shirley.
Caroline's ears yet rung with that thrilling whisper, "1
expect Mr. Moore," her heart yet beat and her cheek yet
glowed with it, when a note from the organ pealed above the
eonf'used humn  of the place.  Dr. Boultby, Mr. Helstone,
and Mr. Hall rose, so did all present, and grace was sung to
the accompaniment of the music; and then tea began. She
was kept too busy with her office for a while to have leisure
fir looking round, but the last cup being filled, she threw a
restless glance over the room.  There were some ladies and
several gentlemen standing about yet unaccommodated with
seats; amidst a group she recognized her spinster friend,
Miss Mann, whom the fine weather had tempted or some
urgent friend had persuaded, to leave her drear solitude for
one hour of social enjoyment.  Miss Mann looked tired of
standing: a lady in -a yellow bonnet brought her a chair.
Carohline knew well that " chapeau en satin jaune;" she knew
the bla&, k hair, and the kind'y, though rather opinionated an!I




274                   S 1 I R I     IEL  Y
froward-lookinag fa3e under it; she knew that' robe d( soi
noire;" she knew even that " schal gris de lin;" she knew,
in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to jump up aInd
ruon to her and kiss her —to give her one embrace for her
own sake, and two for her brother's.  She half rose, indeed,
with a smothered exclamation, and perhaps-for the impulse
was very strong —she would have run across the room, and
actually saluted her, but a hand replaced her in her seat, and
a voice behind her whispered" Wait till after tea, Lina, and then I'll bring her to you."
And when she could look up she did, and there was Robert
himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness, looking better
than she had ever seen him look —looking, indeed, to her
partial eyes, so very handsome, that she dared not trust herself to hazard a second glance; for his image struck on her
vision with painful brightness, and pictured itself on her
memory as vividly as if there daguerreotyped by a pencil of'
keen lightning.
He moved on, and spoke to Miss Keeldar.  Shirley, irritated by some unwelcome attentions from Sam WTynne, and
by the fact of that gentleman being still seated on her gloves
and handkerchief-and probably, also, by Moore's want of
punctuality-was by no means in good humor.  She first
shrugged her shoulder at him and then she said a bitter word
or two about his "insupportable tardiness."  Moore neither
apologized nor retorted: he stood near her quietly, as if waiting' to see whether she would recover her temper; which she
did in little more than three minutes, indicating the change
by offering him her hand.  Moore took it with a smile, half:
corrective, half'grateful; the slightest possible shake of the
head delicately marked the fornmer quality; it is probable a
gentle pressure indicated the latter.
"You may sit where you can now, Mr. Moore," said
Shirley, also smiling: "you see there is ilot an inch of room
for you here; but I discern plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby's
table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle; go:
John Sykes will be your vis-a-vis, and you will sit with your
back toward us."
Moore, however, preferred lingering about where he was:
he now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing in
his walk to interchange greetings with other gentlemen in hbis




THE SCHO-OL-FEAST.                   275
own placeless predicament; but still he came back to the
magnet, Shirley, bringing with him, each time he returned,
observations it was necessary to whisper in her car.
Meantime, poor Sam Wynne looked far from comfortable:
his fair neighbor, judging from her movements, appeared in a
tnood the most unquiet and unaccommodating: she would
not sit still two seconds: she was hot; she fanned herself;
complained of want of air and space.  She remarked, that, in
her opinion, when people had finished their tea they ought to
leave the tables, and announced distinctly that she expected to
faint if the present state of things continued. Mr. Sam offered
to accompany her into the open air; just the way to give her
her death of cold, she alleged; in short, his post became untenable; and having swallowed his quantum of tea, he judged
tt expedient to evacuate.
Moore should have been at hand, whereas he was quite at
the other extremity of the room, deep in conference with
Christopher Sykes. A large corn-factor, Timothy RIamsden,
Esq., happened to be nearer, and feeling himself tired of'
standing, he advanced to fill the vacant seat.  Shirley's expedients did not fail her: a sweep of her scarf upset her teacup, its contents were shared between the bench and her own
satin dress. Of course, it became necessary to call a waiter
to remedy the mischief; Mr. Ramsden, a stout, puffy gentleman, as large in person as he was in property, held aloof from
the consequent commotion.  Shirley, usually almost culpably
indifferent to slight accidents affecting dress, &c., now made
a commotion that might have become the most delicate and
nervous of' her sex: Mr. Ramsden opened his mouth, withdrew slowly, and, as Miss Keeldar again intimated her intention to' give way" and swoon on the spot, he turned on. his
heel, and beat a heavy retreat.
Moore at last returned: calmly surveying the bustle, and
somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's enigmatical-looking
countenance, he remarked, that in truth this was the hottest
end of the room; that he found a climate there calculated to
agree with none but cool temperaments like his own; and,
putting the waiters, the napkins, the satin robe, the r hole
turmoil, in short, to one side, he installed himself where des.
tiny evidently decreed he should sit. Shirley subsided; her
features altered their lines: the raised, knit brow and inex




276                   SHIRL  Y.
plicable curve of the mouth became straight again: wi ful,
ness and roguery gave place to other expressions; and all the
angular movements with which she had vexed the soul of
Sam aWynne were conjured to rest, as by a charm.  Still no
gracious glance was cast on Moore: on the contrary, he was
accused of giving her a world of trouble, and roundly charged
with being the cause of depriving her of the esteem of Mr.
RTamsden, and the invaluable friendship of Mr. Samuel
Wynne.
" TWouldn't have offended either gentleman for the world,"
she averred; " I have always been accustomed to treat both
with the most respectful consideration, and there, owing to
you, how they have been used! I shall not be happy till I
have made it up: I never am happy till I amn friends with
my neighbors; so to-morrow I must make a pilgrimage to
Royd corn-mill, soothe the miller, and praise the grain, and
next day I must call at De Walden —where I hate to goand carry in my reticule half an oat-cake to give to Mr.
Sam's favorite pointers."
" You know the surest path to the heart of each swain, I
doubt not," said Moore, quietly.  He looked very content to
have at last secured his present place; but he made no fine
speech expressive of gratification, and offered no apology foi
the trouble he had given. Is phlegm became him wonderfully; it made him look handsomer, he was so composed: it
made his vicinage pleasant, it was so peace-restoring.  You
would not have thought, to look at him, that he was a poor
struggling man seated beside a rich woman; the calm of
equality stilled his aspect: perhaps that calm, too, reigned in
his soul. Now and then, from the way in which he looked
down on Miss Keeldar as he addressed her, you would have
fancied his station towered above hers as much as his stature
did. Almost stern lights sometimes crossed his brow and
gleamed in his eyes: their conversation had become animated,
though it was confined to a low key; she was urging him
with questions-evidently, he refused to her curiosity all the
gratification it demanded. She sought his eye once with
hers: you read, in its soft yet eager expression, that it solicited
clearer replies.  Moore smiled pleasantly, but his lips continued unsealed.  Then she was piqued and turned away,
but he recalled her attention in two miinuteos; he seemed




THE SCHOOL     FEAST.              277
making promises, which he soothed her into accepting in lieu
of information.
It appeared that the heat of the room did not suit Miss
Jelstone: she grew paler and paler as the process of teamaling was protracted. The moment thanks were returned,
she quitted the table, and hastened to follow her cousin Hortense, who, with Miss Mann, had already sought the open air'Robert Moore had risen when she did-perhaps he meant to
speak to her; but there was yet a parting word to exchange
with Miss Keeldar, and while it was being uttered, Caroline
had vanished.
Hortense received her former pupil with a demeanor of more
dignity than warmth: she had been seriously offended by Mr
Helstone's proceedings, and had all along considered Caroline
to blame, in obeying her uncle too literally.
"You are a very great stranger," she said, austerely, as her
pupil held and pressed her hand.  The pupil knew her too
wvell to remonstrate or complain of coldness; she let the punce
tilious whim pass, sure that her natural bonzte (I use this
French word, because it expresses just what I mean; neither
goodness nor good-nature, but something between the two)
would presently get the upper-hand.  It did: Hortense had
no sooner examined her face well, and observed the change
its somewhat wasted features betrayed, than her mien softened.
Kissing her on both cheeks, she asked anxiously after her
health: Caroline answered gayly. It would, however, have
been her lot to undergo a long cross-examination, followed by
an endless lecture on this head, had not Miss Mann called
off the attention of the questioner, by requesting to be con.
ducted home. The poor invalid was already fatigued: her
weariness made her cross-too cross almost to speak to Caroline; and besides, that young person's white dress and lively
look were displeasing in the eyes of Miss Mann: the everyday garb of brown stuff or gray gingham, and the every-day
air of melancholy, suited the solitary spinster better: she would
hardly know her young friend to-night, and quitted her with
a cool nod. Hortense having promised to accompany her
home, they departed together.
Caroline now looked round for Shirley. She saw the rainbow scarf and purple dress in the center of a throng of ladies,
all well-known to herself, but all of the order whomn she sys




278                    SH I RLEY.
ternatlcally avoided whenever avoidance was possible. Shyer
at some moments than at others, she felt just now no courage
at all to join this company:  she could not, however, stand
alone where. all others went in pairs or parties, so she ap.
preached a group of her own scholars, great girls, or rather
young women, who were standing watching some hundreds
of the younger children playing at blind-man's-butf.
Miss Ilelstone knew these girls liked her, yet she was shy
even with them, out of school: they were not more in awe
of her than she of them: she drew near them now, rather to
find protection in their company than to patronize them with
her presence. By some instinct they knew her weakness, and
with natural politeness they respected it.  Her inowledge
commanded their esteem when she taught them; her gentleness attracted their regard; and because she was what they
considered wise and good when on duty, they kindly overlooked
her evident timidity when off: they did not take advantage
of it. Peasant girls as they were, they had too much of her
own English sensibility to be guilty of the coarse error: they
stood round her still, civil, friendly, receiving her slight smiles,
and rather hurried efforts to converse, with a good feeling and
good breeding, the last quality being the result of the first,
which soon set her at her ease.
Mr. Sam Wynnue coming up with great haste, to insist on
the elder girls joining in the game as well as the younger
ones, Caroline was again left alone. She was meditating a
quiet retreat to the house, when Shirley perceiving from ai:fr
her isolation, hastened to her side.
"Let us go to the top of the fields," she said: "I know you
don't like crowds, Caroline."
"But it will be depriving you of a pleasure, Shirley, to take
yeou from all these fine people, who court your society so assiduously, and to whom you can, without art or effort, make
yourself so pleasant."
" Not quite without effort: i am already tired of the exertion: it is but insipid, barren work, talking and laughing
with the good gentlefolks of Briarfield   I have been looking
out for your white dress for the last ten minutes: I like to
watch those I love in a crowd, and to compare them with
others: I have thus compared you. You resemble none of the
rest;, Lina: tthere are some prettier faces than yours here; you




TIHE SCHOOL-FEAST.                    279
are n it a model-beauty, like Harriet Sykes for instance: beside
her, your person appears almost insignificant; but you look agree.
able —-you look reflective-you look what I call interesting."
"Hush, Shirley I You flatter me."
I" don't wonder that your scholars like you.":' Nonsense, Shirley: talk of something else."
"5WVe will talk of Moore, then, and we will watch him: 1
see him even now."': Where?" And as Caroline asked the question, she looked
not over the fields, but into Miss Keeldar's eyes, as was her
wont whenever Shirley mentioned any object she descried afar.
Her friend had quicker vision than herself; and Caroline
seemed to think that the secret of' her eagle acuteness might
be read in her dark gray irids: or rather, perhaps, she only
sought guidance by the direction of those discriminating and'rilliant spheres.
"There is Moore," said Shirley, pointing right across the
wide field, where a thousand children were playing, and now
nearly a thousand adult spectators walking about.  "There
— can you miss the tall stature and straight port? HI-e looks,
amidst the set that surround him, like Eliab among humbler
shepherds-like Saul in a war-council; and a war-council it
is, if I am not mistaken."
" Why so, Shirley?" asked Caroline, whose eye had at last
caught the object it sought,  " Robert is just now speaking
to my uncle, and they are shaking hands; they are then reconciled."
" Reconciled not without good reason, depend on it: making
comemon cause against some common fbe.  And why, think
you, are Messrs. Wynne and Sykes, and Armitage and Ramsdaen gathered in such a close circle round them?  And why
is Malone beckoned to join them?  Where he is summoned,
Le sure a strong arm is needed."
Shirley, as she watched, grew restless; her eyes flashed.
"They won't trust me," she said: " that is always the way
lhen it comes to the point."
" WChat about?"
" Can not you feel? There is some mystery afloat: some
event is expected; some preparation is to be made.  I am
certain: I saw it all in Mr. Moore's manner this evening: Ihe
uAas excitedl, yet hard."




280                   8HIRLEY.
" I-lard to you. Shirley?'
"Yes, to smze.  HIe often is hard to ine.  We seldom converse tdte-ai-tte, but I am made to feel that the basis of his
character is not of eider down."
" Yet he seemed to talk to you softly."
"Did lie not't Very gentle tones and quiet manner; yet
the man is peremptory and secret: his secrecy vexes me."
"Yes-Robert is secret."
" Which he has scarcely a right to be with me; especially
as he commenced by giving me his confidence. Having done
nothing to forfeit that confidence, it ought not to be withdrawn:
but I suppose I am not considered iron-souled enough to be
trusted in a crisis."
" He fears, probably, to occasion you uneasiness."
"An unnecessary precaution: I am of elastic materials, not
soon crushed; he ought to know that: but the man is proud'
he has his faults, say what you will, Lina.  Observe how
engaged that group appear: they do not know that we arq
watchiing them."
" If we keep on the alert, Shirley, we shall perhaps find the
Clew to their secret."
"There will be some unusual movements ere long —perhaph
to morrow-possibly to-night. But my eyes and ears are wide
open: Mr. Moore, you shall be under surveillance.  Be you
vigilant also, Lina."
"I will: Robert is going.  I saw him turn-I believe he
noticed us —they are shaking hands."
" Shakin hands, with emphasis," added Shirley: as if they
were ratifying some solemn league and covenant."
They saw Robert quit the group, pass through a gate, and
disappear.
"And he has not bid us good-by," murmured Caroline.
Scarcely had the words escaped her lips, when she tried by
a smile to deny the confession of disappointment they seemed
to imply. An unbidden suffusion for one moment both softened
and brightened her eyes.
" Oh, that is soon remedied i!" exclaimed Shirley, "We'll
mauke him bid us good-by."
" lakce him! That is not the same thing," was the ar
swer.
" It shall be the same thing."




T'HE SCI-IOUL-FEAST.                281'But he.s gone:'you can't overtake him."
"I know a shortei way than that he has taken:   we will
intercept him."
"But. Shirley-, I would rather not go."
Caroline said this as Miss Keeldar seized her armn and
hurried her down the fields. It was vain to contend: nothing
was so willful as Shirley when she took a whim into her head:
Caroline found herself out of sight of the crowd almost before
she was aware, and ushered into a narrow, shady spot, embowered above with hawthorns, and enameled under foot with
daisies. She took no notice of the evening sun checkering the
turf, nor was she sensible of the pure incense exhaling at this
hour from tree and plant; she only heard the wicket opening
at one end, and knew Robert was approaching.  The long
sprays of the hawthorns, shooting out before them, served as
a screen; they saw him before he observed them. At a
glance Caroline perceived that his social hilarity was gone:
he had left it behind him in the joy-echoing fields round the
school; what remained now was his dark, quiet, business
countenance.
As Shirley had said, a certain hardness characterized his
air, while his eye was excited, but austere. So much the
worse-timed was the present freak of Shirley's: if he had
looked disposed for holiday mirth, it would not have mattered
much, but now" I told you not to come," said Caroline, somewhat bitterly,
to her fiiend. She seemed truly perturbed: to be intruded on
Robert thus, against her will and his expectation, and when
he evidently would rather not be delayed, keenly annoyed her.
It did not annoy Miss Keeldar in the least: she stepped forward and faced her tenant, barring his way"You omitted to bid us good-by!" she said.
"Omitted to bid you good-by! Where did you come from?
Are you fairies. I left two like you, one in purple and one
in white, standing at the top of a bank, four fields off, but a,
minute ago."
"You left us there and find us here.  We have been
watching you; and shall watch you still: you must be questioned one day, but not now: at present, all you have to do
is to say good-night, and then pass."
Moore glanced from uone to the ether, without unbeundlint




282                  br I  LEY.
his aspect.  " Days of' ite have their privileges, anti so have
days of hazard," observed he, gravely.
C' ome-don't moralize: say good-night, and pass," urged
Shirley.
" Must I say good-night to you, Miss Keeldar?"
" Yes, and to Caroline, likewise. It is nothing new, I hope
you have bid us both good-night before."
He took her hand, held it in one of his, and covered it with
the other: he looked down at her gravely, kindly, yet corn
mandingly.  The heiress could not make this man her subject: in his gaze on her bright face there was no servility,
hardly homage; but there was interest and affection, heightened by another feeling: something in his tone when he spoke,
as well as in his words, marked that last sentiment to be
gratitude.
" Your debtor bids you good-niglht! May you rest safely
and serenely till morning!"
" And you, Mr. Moore —what are you going to do?  What
have you been saying to Mr. Helstone, with whom I saw
you shake hands? Why did all those gentlemen gather
round you?  Put away reserve for once: be frank with me."
" WVho can resist you?  I will be frank: to-morrow, if
there is any thing to relate, you shall hear it."
"Just now," pleaded Shirley: " don't procrastinate."
"But I could only tell half a tale; and my time is limited
-I have not a moment to spare: hereafter I will make
amends fobr delay by candor."
" But are you going home?"
"Yes."
" Tot to leave it any more to-night."
"Certainly not. At present, farewell to both of you!"
He would have taken Caroline's hand and joined it inl the
same clasp in which he held Shirley's, but, somehow, it was
not ready for him; she had withdrawn a few steps apart'
her answer to MIoore's adieu was only a slight bend of the
head, and a gentle, serious smile.  He sought no more cordial
token: again he said " Farewell!" and quitted them both.
" There!- it is over!" said Shirley, when he was gone,
"W'Te have mlade him bid us good-night, and yet not lost
[-rouind in his esteem, I think, Cary."
"I bope r vt," was the brief reply.




rHIE SCHOOL-l EAST.                 283
I' I consider you very timid and undemonstrative," remark
ed Miss Keeldar.  " Wvhy did you not give Moore your hand
when he offered you his?  I-e is your cousin: you like him.
Are you ashamed to let him perceive your affection?"
"He perceives all of it that interests him: no need to make
a display of feeling."
"You are laconic: you would be stoical if you could. Is
love in your eyes, a crime, Caroline?"
" Love a crime! No, Shirley: love is a divine virtue;
but why drag that word into the conversation? it is singu
larly irrelevant i"
" Good!" pronounced Shirley.
The two girls paced the green lane in silence. Caroline
first resumed" Obtrusiveness is a crime; forwardness is a crime; and
both disgust: but love!-no purest angel need blush to love'
And when I see or hear either man or woman couple shame witL
love, I know their minds are coarse, their associations debased.
MIany who think themselves refined ladies and gentlemen,
and on whose lips the word'vulgarity' is forever hovering,
can not mention'love' without betraying their own innate
and imbecile degradation: it is a low feeling in their estimation, connected only with low ideas for them."
" You describe three-fourths of the world, Caroline."
" They are cold-they are cowardly-they are stupid on
the subject, Shirley! They never loved-they never were
loved!"
" Thou art right, Lina! And in their dense ignorance
they blaspheme living fire, seraph-brought from  a divine
altar."
"They confound it with sparks mounting from Tophet!"
The sudden and joyous clash of bells here stopped the di;a.
logue by summering all to the church.




284                  TSHIRLEY.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHIC'H THE GENTEEL READER IS RECOMMENIDED TO SKIP, LOW
PERSONS BEING HERE INTRODUCED.
TIHE evening was still and warm; close and sultry it even
promised to become.  Round the descending sun the clouds
glowed purple: summer tints, rather Indian than English,
suffused the horizon, and cast rosy reflections on hill-side,
house-front, tree-bole; on winding road, and undulating
pasture-ground. The two girls came down from the fields
slowly: by the time they reached the church-yard the bells
were hushed; the multitudes were gathered into the church'
the whole scene was solitary.
"How pleasant and calm it is!" said Caroline.
"And how hot it will be in the church!" responded Shirley;
" and what a dreary, long speech Dr. Boultby will make!
and how the curates will hammer over their prepared orations!
For my part, I would rather not enter."
" But my uncle will be angry, if he observes our absence."
" I will bear the brunt of his wrath: he will not devour
me.  I shall be sorry to miss his pungent speech.  I know
it will be all sense for the Church, and all causticity for
Schism: he'll not forget the battle of lRoyd-lane.  I shall be
sorry also to deprive you of Mr. Hall's sincere, friendly homily,
with all its racy Yorlkshireisms; but here I must stay.  The
gray church and grayer tombs look divine with this crimsou
gleam on them.  Nature is now at her evening prayers: she
is kneeling before those red hills.  I see her prostrate on the
great steps of her altar, praying for a fair night for mariners
it sea, for travelers in deserts, fobr lambs on moors, and unfledged birds in woods.  Caroline, I see her! and I will tell
you what she is like: she is like what Eve was when she and
Adam stood alone on earth."
" And that is not Milton's Eve, Shirley?"
"Milton's Eve! Mlilton's Eve! I repeat.  No, by the purs
Mother of' God, she is not! Cary, wYe are alone: we may




LOW  PERSONS INTRODUCED.                 285;]:eaiK what we think. Milton was great; but was he g ood?
His brain was right, how was his heart?  Ile saw Heaven:
he looked down onl Hell. IHe saw Satan, and Sin his daughter, and Death their horrible offspring.  Angels serried beibre
him their battalions: the long lines of adamantine shields
flashed back on his blind eyeballs the unutterable splendor of
heaver.  Devils gathered their legions in his sight: the'i.
dim, discrowned, and tarnished armies passed, rank and filce,
before him. Milton tried to see the first woman; but, Cary
he saw her not."
"You are bold to say so, Shirley."
" Not more bold than faithful.  It was his cook that he
saw: or it was Mrs. Gill, as I have seen her, making custards
in the heat of summer, in the cool dairy, with rose-trees and
nasturtiums about the latticed window, preparing a cold collation for the rectors-preserves, and'dulcet creams'-puzzled' what choice to choose fobr delicacy best; what order so
contrived as not to mix tastes, not well-joined, inelegant; but
bring taste after taste, upheld with kindliest change.'"
"All very well too, Shirley."
"I would beg to remind him that the first men of the earth
were Titans, and that Eve was their mother: from her sprang
Saturn, Hyperion, Oceanus; she bore Prometheus-"
"Pagan that you are! what does that signify 2"
" I say, there were giants on the earth in those days: giants
that strove to scale heaven.  The first woman's breast that
lheaved with life on this world yielded the daring which could:ontend with Omnipotence: the strength which could bear a
thousand years of bondage-the vitality which could feed that
vulture death through uncounted ages-the unexhausted life
and uncorrupted excellence, sisters to immortality, which, after
millenniums of crimes, struggles, and woes, would conceive and
bring forth a Messiah.  The first woman was heaven-born:
vast was the heart whence gushed the well-spring of the blood
of nations; and grand the undegenerate head where rested the
Ponsort-crown of creation."
"She coveted an apple, and was cheated by a snake: but
you have got such a hash of Scripture and mythology into
your head that there is no making any sense of yolu. You
have not yet told me what you saw kneeling on those hills."
"I ra.w- I now secc-a woman-Titan: her robe of blue aii
N




286                   SHIRLEY.
spreads to the outskirts of the heath, where yonder flo&h i
grazing; a vail white as an avalanche sweeps from her head
to her feet, and arabesques of lightning flame on its borders.
Under her breast I see her zone, purple like that horizon:
through its blush shines the star of evening.  Her steady eyes
I can not picture; they are clear-they are deep as lakesthey are lifted and fill of worship-they tremble with the
softness of love and the luster of prayer. Her forehead has
the expanse of a cloud, and is paler than the early moon, risen
long before dark gathers: she reclines her bosom on the ridge
of Stilbro' AMoor; her mighty hands are joined beneath it.
So kneeling, face to face, she speaks to God.  That Eve is
Jehovah's daughter, as Adam was his son."
" She is very vague and visionary! Come, Shirley, we
ought to go into church."' Caroline, I will not: I will stay out here with my mother
Eve, in these days called Nature.  I love her-undying,
mighty being! Heaven may have faded from her brow when
she fill in paradise; but all that is glorious on earth shines
there still.  She is taking me to her bosom, and showing me
her heart.  IIush, Caroline! you will see her and feel as I do,
if we are both silent."
"I will humor your whim; but you will begin talking
again; ere telln minutes are over."
Miss Keeldar, on whom the soft excitement of the warm
summer evening seemed working with unwonted power, leaned
against an upright headstone: she fixed her eyes on the deepburning west, and sank into a pleasurable trance.  Caroline,
going a little apart, paced to and fro beneath the rectory garden-wall, dreaming too, in her way. Shirley had mentioned
the word " mother:" that word suggested to Caroline's imagination not the mighty and mystical parent of Shntlvy's
visions, but a gentle human form-the form she ascribed to
her own mother; unknown, unloved, but not unlonged-fbr.
"Oh, that the day would come when she would remember
her child! Oh, that I might know her, and knowing, love
her!"
Such was her aspiration.
The lonlging of her childhood filled her soul again.  The
tdcire which many a night had kept her awake in her crib,
ancd which fia of' its fallacy had of' late years almost extin




LOW  PERSONS  N TRODUCED.                  287
guished, relit suddenly, and glowed warm in lbet heart: that
her mother might come some happy day, and send for her to
her presence-look upon her fondly, with loving eyes, and say
to her tenderly, in a sweet voice" Caroline, my child, I have a home for you; you shall live
with me. All the love you have needed, and not tasted, from
infancy, I have saved for you carefully.  Come! it shall
cherish you now."
A noise on the road roused Caroline from her filial hopes,
and Shirley fiom her Titan visions.  They listened, and heard
*the tramp of horses: they looked, and saw a glitter through
the trees: they caught through the foliage glimpses of martial
scarlet; helm shone, plume waved. Silent and orderly, six
soldiers rode softly by.
"The same we saw this afternoon," whispered Shirley:
"They have been halting somewhere till now. They wish to
be as little noticed as possible, and are seeking their rendezvous at this quiet hour, while the people are at church.  Did
I not say we should see unusual things ere long?"
Scarcely were sight and sound of the soldiers lost, when another and somewhat different disturbance broke the night-hush
-a child's impatient scream.  They looked: a man issued
from the church, carrying in his arms an infant-a robust,
ruddy little boy, of some two years old-roaring with all the
power of his luings; he had probably just awakened from a
church sleep: two little girls, of nine and ten, followed. The
influence of the- fresh air, and the attraction of some flowers
gathered from a grave, soon quieted the child; the man sat
down with him, dandling him on his knee as tenderly as any
woman; the two little girls took their places one on each side.
" Good-eveninig, William," said Shirley, after due scrutiny
of the man.  He had seen her before, and apparently was
waiting to be recognized; he now took off his hat, and grinned
a snile of pleasure.  Ile was a rough-headed, hard-featured
personage, nor old, but very weather-beaten; his attire was
decent and clean, that of his children singularly neat; it was
our old friend, Farren.  The young ladies approached him.
"You are not going into the church?" he inquired, gazing
at them complacently, yet with a mixture of bashfulness in his
look: a sentiment not by any means the result of awe of their
station, but only of appreciation of their elegance and youth,




288                   SHIRLEY.
Before gentlemen —such as Moore or Helstcne, for instance-~.
William was often a little dogged; with proud or insolent
ladies, too, lie was quite unmanageable, sometimes very resentf1ul; but he was most sensible of; most tractable to good-humor
and civility.  His nature-a stubborn one-was repelled by
inflexibility in other natures; for which reason he had never
been able to like his former master, Moore; and, unconscious
of that gentleman's good opinion of himself, and of the service
he had secretly rendered him in recommending him as gardener to Mr. Yorke, and by this means to other families in the
neighborhood, he continued to harbor a grudge against his
austerity. Latterly, he had often workied at Fieldhead; Miss
Keeldar's frank, hospitable manners were perfectly charming
to him. Caroline he had known from her childhood: unconsciously, she was his ideal of a lady. Her gentle mien, step,
gestures, her grace of person and attire, moved some artistfibers about his peasant heart: he had a pleasure in looking
at her, as he had in examining rare flowers, or in seeing pleasant landscapes.  Both the ladies liked William: it was their
delight to lend him books, to give him plants; and they preferred his conversation far before that of many coarse, hard,
pretentious people, immeasurably higher in station.
" Who was spealing, William, when you came out?"
e.sked Shirley.
" A gentleman ye set a deal of store on, Miss Shirley-Mr.
Donne."
"You look knowing, W~illiam.  How did you find out my
regard for Mr. Donne?"
"Ay, Miss Shirley, there's a gleg light i' your een someimes which betrays you.  You look raight down scornful
sometimes, when Mr. Donne is by."
"Do you like him yourself, William?"
"Me? I'm stalled o' t' curates, and so is t' wife: they've
no manners; they talk to poor folk fair as if they thought
they were beneath them.  They're allus magnifyirg their
office: it is a pity but their office could magnify them; but it
does naught o' t' soart.  1 fair hate pride."
"But you are proud in your own way yourself," interposed
Caroline; "you are what you call house-proud: you like to
have every thing handsome about you: sometimes you look
as if you were almost too proud to take your wages.  When




LJWNy PERSON8 IN'rRODUCED.               289
you were out of wook, you were too proud to get any tlding on
credit; but fbr your children, I believe you would rather ha-re
starved than gone to the shops without money; and when 1
wanted to give you something, what a difficulty I had in
making you take it!"
"It is partly true, Miss Caroline; ony day I'd rather give
than take, especially from sich as ye. Look at t' difference
between us: ye're a little, young, slender lass, and I'm  a
great, strong man: I'm rather more nor twice your age.  It
is not my part, then, I think, to tak' fro' ye-to be under obligations (as they say) to ye; and that day ye came to our
house, and called me to t' door, and offered me five shillings,
which I doubt ye could ill spare-for ye've no fortin', I know
-that day I war fair a rebel-a radical-an insurrectionist;
and ye made me so. I thought it shameful that, willing and
able as I was to work, I suld be i' such a condition that a
young cratur about the age o' my own eldest lass suld think
it needful to come and offer me her bit o' brass."
"I suppose you were angry with me, William?"
"I almost was, in a way; but I forgave ye varry soon: ye
meant well. Ay, I ant proud, and so are ye; but your pride
and mine is t' raight mak'-what we call i' Yorkshire' clean
pride'-such as Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne knows naught
about: theirs is mucky pride. Now, I shall teach my lasses
to be as proud as Miss Shirley there, and my lads to be as
proud as myseln; but I dare ony o''em to be like t' curates.
I'd lick little Michael, if I seed him show any signs o' that
feeling."
" What is the difference, William 1"
"Ye know t' difference weel enow, but ye want me to get
a gate o' talking.  Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne is almost too
proud to do aught for theirsel'n; we are almost too proud to
let any body do aught for us. T' curates can hardly bide to
speak a civil word to them they think beneath them; we can
hardly bide to tak' an uncivil word fro' them that thinks
themsel'n aboon us."
"Now, William, be humble enough to tell me truly how
you are getting on in the world-are you well off?"
" Miss Shirley-.I am vary well off. Since I got into t'
gardening line, wi' Mr. Yorke's help, and since MlIr. Hall (another o' t' raight sort) helped my wife to set up a bit of a




2'90                  SHIERLE Y.
shop, I've naught to complain of.  My famnily has plent-y to
eat and plenty to wear.  Ml/y pride makes me find means to
save an odd pound now and then against rainy days; fbr I
think I'd die afore I'd come to t' parish; and me and mine.s content; but th' neighbors is poor yet —I see a great deal
of distress."
" And, consequently, there is still discontent, I suppose?"
inquired Miss Keeldar.
"Consequently-ye say right-consequently.  In course,
starving folk can not ble satisfied or settled folk. The courntry's not in a safe condilion-I'll say so mich."
" But what can be done 3  What more can I do, for instance?"
" Do?-ye can do naught mich, poor young lass! Ye've
gi'en your brass-ye've done well.  If ye could transport
your tenant, Mr. Moore, to Botany Bay, ye'd happen do better. Folks hate him."
"' William, for shame!" exclaimed Caroline, warmly.  "If
folks do hate him, it is to their disgrace, not his.  Mr. Moore
himself hates nobody: he only wants to do his duty and
maintain his rights-you are wrong to talk so!"
"I talk as I think.  He has a cold, unfeelingr heart, yond'
Moore."
" But," interposed Shirley, "supposing Moore was driven
fiom the country, and his mill razed to the ground, would
people have more work 2"
" They'd have less.  I know that, and they know that;
and there is many an honest lad driven desperate by the certainty that whichever way he turns, he can not better himself, and there is dishonest men plenty to guide them  to the
devil-scoundrels that reckons to be the'people's friends,'
and that knows naught about the people, and is as insincere
as Lucifer. I've lived aboon forty year in the world, and I
believe that'the people' will never have any true friends but
theirsel'n, and them  two or three folk i' different stations,
that is fiiends to all the world.  Human natur', taking it i'
th' lump, is nauglht but selfishness.  It is but excessive few
-it is but just an exception here and there, now and then,
sich as ye two young'uns and me, that being in a different
sphere, can understand t' one t' other, and be friends wi'out
slavishness o' one hand, or pride o' t' other.  Them that reck,




LOW  PERSONS INTRODUCED.                   2391.nas lo be friends to a lower class than their own fib' politicai
motives is never to be trusted-they always try to make their
infiriors tools.  For my own part, I will neither be patronized
nor misled for no man's pleasure.  I've had overtulr's marade
to me lately that I saw were treacherous, and - flung'cm
tack i' the faces o' them that offered'em."
" You won't tell us what overtures I"
"I will not: it would do no good; it would mak' no difference: them they concerned can look after theirsel'n."
" Ay, we'se look after Wersel'n," said another voice.  Jos
Scott had sauntered forth from the church to get a breath of
fresh air, and there he stood.
"I'll warrant ye, Joe," observed William, smiling.
" And I'll warrant my maister," was the answer. "Young
ladies," continued Joe, assuming a lordly air, "ye'd better gc
into th' house."
" I wonder what for." inquired Shirley, to whom the over
looker's somewhat pragmatical manners were familiar, and
who was often at war with him; for Joe, holding supercilious
theories about women in general, resented greatly, in his secret
soul, the fact of his master and his master's mill being, in a
manner, under petticoat government, and had felt as worm,
wood and gall, certain business-visits of the heiress to the
H-ollow's counting-house.
" Because there is naught agate that fits women to be con
sarned in."
"' Indeed! There is prayer and preaching agate in that
church; are we not concerned in that?"
" Ye have been present neither at the prayer nor preaching
ma'am, if I have observed aright. What I alluded to was
politics: William Farren, here, was touching upon that subject, if I'm not mista'en."
" Vell, what then? Politics are our habitual study, Joe. Do
you know I see a newspaper every day, and two of a Sunday?'
"I should think you'll read the marriages, probably, 5M~iss
and the murders, and the accidents, and sich like."
"I read the leading articles, Joe, and the foreign intelligence, and I look over the market prices: in short, I read
just what gentlemen read."
Joe looked as if he thought this talk was like the chatterinig
of a pie.  He replied to it by a disdainful silence.




292                    % iT I RLE Y.' Joe," continued ~Miss Keeldar, " I never yet could as-.er
tain properly, whether you are a Whig or a Tory: pray which
party has the honor of your alliance?"
" It is rayther difficult to explain where you are sure not
to be understood," was Joe's haughty response; "but, as to
being a Tory, I'd as soon be an old woman, or a young one,
which is a more flimsier article still.  It is the Tories that
carries on the wrar, and ruins trade; and if I be of any party
— though political parties is all nonsense-I'm of that which
is most favorable to peace, and, by consequence, to the mercantile interests of this here land."
"So am I, Joe," replied Shirley, who had rather a pleasure
in teasing the overlooker, by persisting in talking on subjects
with which he opined she-as a woman-had no right to
meddle: "partly, at least, I have rather a leaning to the
agricultural interest, too; as good reason is, seeing that I
don't desire England to be under the feet of France, and that
if' a share of my income comes from Hollow's mill, a larger
share comes from the landed estate around it.  It would not
do to take any measures injurious to the farmers, Joe, I
think 2"
" The dews at this hour is unwrholesome for females," observed Joe.
" If you make that remark out of interest in me, I have
merely to assure you that I am impervious to cold. I should
not mind taking my turn to watch the mill one of these summear nights, armed with your musket, Joe."
Joe Scott's chin was always rather prominent: he poked
it out, at this speech, some inches further than usual.
" _But-to go back to my sheep," she proceeded —' clothier
and mill-owner, as I am, besides firmer, I can not get out of
my head a certain idea that we manufacturers and persons of
business are sometimes a little, a very little selfish and shortsighted in our views, and rather too regardless of human suffering, rather heartless in our pursuit of gain. Don't you
agree with me, Joe?"
"I can not argue where I can not be comprehended," was
again the answer.
"Man of mystery! Your master will argue with me
sometimes, Joe: he is not so stiff as you are."'May be not: we've all our own ways."




LOW  PERSONS INTRODUCED.                   293
"' Joe, do you seriously think all the wisdom in the world is,edoged in male skulls?"
"I think that women are a kittle and a froward generation;
and I've a great respect for the doctrines delivered in the sece
ond chapter of St. Paul's first Epistle to Timothy."
" What doctrines, Joe?"
" Let the women learn in silence, with all subjection.  1
suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the
man; but to be in silence.  For Adam was first formed, then
Eve."
"What has that to do with the business?" interjected
Shirley: "that smacks of rights of primogeniture.  I'll bring
it up to Mr. Yorke the first time he inveighs against those
rights."
"And," continued Joe Scott, "Adam was not deceived;
but the woman, being deceived, was in the transgression."
"More shame to Adam to sin with his eyes open!" cried
Miss Keeldar.  " To confess the honest truth, Joe, I never
was easy in my mind concerning that chapter: it puzzles me.'
"It is very plain, Miss; he that runs may read."
"He may read it in his own fashion," remarked Caroline,
now joining in the dialogue for the first time.  " You allow
the right of private judgment, I suppose, Joe t"' My certy, that I do! I allow and claim it for every line
of the holy Book."
" Women may exercise it as well as men?"
" Nay, women is to take their husbands' opinion, both in
politics and religion: it's wholesomest for them."
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed both Shirley and Caroline.
"To be sure; no doubt on't," persisted the stubborn ovei.
looker.
" Consider yourself groaned down, and cried shame over,
for such a stupid observation," said Miss Keeldar.  " You
might as well say, men are to take the opinions of their priests
without examination. Of what value would a religion so
adopted be?  It would be mere blind. besotted superstition."
"And what is yJo?r reading, Miss Helstone, o' these words
o' St. Paul's?"
"H em! I —I account for them in this way: he wrote that
chapter for a particular congregation of Christians, under pec
cauliar circumstances, and besides, I dare say, if I could read
N*




294-1-                SHIRLEY.
the original Greek, I should find that many of the words had
been wrongly translated, perhaps mnisapprehended altogether
It would be possible, I doubt not, with a little ingenuity, to
give the passage quite a contrary turn; to make it say,' Let
the woman speak out whenever she sees fit to make an objece
non;'-' It is permitted to a woman to teach and to exercise
authority as much as may be.  Man, meantime, can not do
better than hold his peace' —and so on."
" That willn't wash, Miss."
"I dare say it will. My notions are dyed in faste- colors
than yours, Joe. Mr. Scott, you are a thoroughly dogmatical
person, and always were: I like William better than you."
"Joe is well enough in his own house," said Shirley: "I
have seen him as quiet as a lamb at home.  There is not a
better nor a kinder husband in Briarfield.  H-Ie does not dog..
niatize to his wife."
"  y wife is a hard-working, plain woman: time and trouble
has ta'en all the conceit out of her; but that is not the case
with you, young Misses. And then ye reckon to have so much
knowledge; and i' my thoughts it's only superficial sorts o'
vanities you're acquainted with. I can tell —happen a year
in' —one day Miss Caroline coming into our counting-house,
when I war packing up summut behind the great desk, and
she didn't see me, and she brought a slate wi' a sum on.t to
t' maister: it war only a bit of a sum in practice, that our
Harry would have settled i' two minutes.  She couldn't do
it; Mr. Moore had to show her how; and when he did show
her, she couldn't understand him."
" Nonsense, Joe!"
" Nay, it's no nonsense: and Miss Shirley, there, reckons
to hearken t' maister, when he's talling ower trade, so attentive like, as if she folluwed him word for word, and all war as
clear as a lady's looking-glass to her een; and all t' while
she's peeping and peeping out o' t' window to see if t' mare
stands quiet; and then looking at a bit of a splash on her
riding-skirt; and then glancing glegly round at wer countinghouse cobwebs and dust, and thinking what mucky foik we.
are, and what a grand ride she'll have just i':now ower Nunnely Common.  She hears no nlore o' Mr. Moore's talk nor
if he spake Hebrew."
" Joe, you're a real slanderer.  I would give you your an.




A SUMMER NIGHT.                    295
swer, only the people are coming out of church; we must
leave you. Man of prejudice, good-by: William, good-by.
Children, come up to Fieldhead to-morrow, and you shall
choose what you like best out of MIrs. Gill's store-room."
CHAPTER XIX.
A SUMMER NIGIT.
Tim hour was now that of dusk. A clear air favored the
kindling of the stars.
"There will be just light enough to show me the way
home," said Miss Keeldar, as she prepared to take leave of'
Caroline at the rectory garden-door.
"You must not go alone; Shirley. Fanny shall aceompany
you."'
"That she shall not. Of what need I be afraid in lny
own parish?  I would walk from Fieldhead to the church
any fine midsummer night, three hours later than this, for the
mere pleasure of seeing the stars, and the chance of meeting'
a fairy."
"But just wait till the crowd is cleared away."
"Agreed. There are the five Misses Armitage streaming
by. IHere comes }Mrs. Sykes's phaeton, Mr. Wynne's close
carriage, Mrs. Birtwhistle's car: I don't wish to go through
the ceremony of bidding them all good-by, so we will step
into the garden, and take shelter among the laburnums far
an instant."
The rectors, their curates, and tlheir churchwardens, nosw
issued from the church-porch. There was a great confibulation, shaking of hands, congratulation on speeches, recommendation to be careful of the night air, &c. By degrees the throng
dispersed; the carriages drove oil: Miss Keeldar was just
emerging from her flowery refuge, when Mr. Helstone entered
the garden and met her.
" Oh! I want you!" he said; "I was afraid you were al
ready gone. Caroline, come here!"




9296                  SHIRLEY.
Caroline came, expecting as Shirley did, a lecture on not
having been visible at church. Other subjects, however, occupied the rector's mind.
"I shall not sleep at home to-night," he continued.  " 1
have just met with aln old friend, and promised to accompany
him. I shall return probably about noon to-morrow. Thomas,
the clerk, is engaged, and I can not get him to sleep in the
house, as I usually do when I am absent for a night; now —"
" Now," interrupted Shirley, "you want me as a gentle
man-the first gentleman in Briarfield, in short, to supply
your place, be master of the rectory, and guardian of youi
niece and maids while you are away?"
" Exactly, captain: I thought the post would suit you.
Will you favor Caroline so far as to be her guest for one night?
Will you stay here instead of going back to Fieldhead?"
"And what will Mrs. Pryor do? She expects me home."," I will send her word. Come, make up your mind to stay.
It grows late; the dew falls heavily; you and Caroline will
enjoy each other's society I doubt not."
" I promise you, then, to stay with Caroline," replied Shirley.  "As you say, we shall enjoy each other's society: we
will not be separated to-night.  Now, rejoin your old friend,
and fear nothing for us."'; If there should chance to be any disturbance in the night,
captain-if you should hear the picking of a lock, the cutting
out of' a pane of glass, a stealthy tread of steps about the house
(and I need not fear to tell yozu, who bear a well-tempered,
mettlesome heart under your girl's ribbon-sash, that such little
incidents are very possible in the present time), what would
you do?"
"' Don't know-faint, perhaps-fall down, and have to be
picked up again. But, doctor, if you assign me the post of
honor, you must give me arms;. What weapons are there in
your stronghold?"' You could nrt wield a sword?"
"No; I could manage the carving-knife better."
"You will fir.d a good one in the dining-room side-board. lady's knife, light to handle, and as sharp-pointed as a
poniard."'
"It:1ill suit Caroline; but you must give me a brace 4lf
pistoels: I klnow you have pistols "




A SUMMER NIGiHT.                    297
"I have two pairs; one pair I can place at your disposal
You will find them  suspended over the mantle-piece of m)
study in cloth cases."
"Loaded?"
"Yes, but not on the cock. Cock them before you go to
bed  It is paying you a great compliment, captain, to lend
you these: were you one of the awkward squad you should
neot have them."
"I will take care.  You need delay no longer, Mr. Hel.
stone: you may go now. He is gracious to me to lend me
his pistols," she remarked, as the rector passed out at the
garden-gate.  "But come, Lina," she continued; "let us go
in and have some supper: I was too much vexed at tea with
the vicinage of Mr. Sam W~ynne to be able to eat, and now
I am really hungry."
Entering the house, they repaired to the darkened diningroom, through the open windows of which apartment stole
the evening air, bearing the perfume of flowers from  the
garden, the very distant sound of far-retreating steps from the
road, and a soft, vague murmur, whose origin Caroline explained by the remark, uttered as she stood listenilng at the
casement"Shirley, I hear the beck in the Itollow."
Then she rang the bell, asked fbr a candle and some bread
and milk —Miss Keeldar's usual supper and her own. Fanny,
when she brought in the tray, would have closed the windows
and the shutters, but was requested to desist for the present 
the twilight was too calm, its breath too balmy, to be yet
excluded.  They took their meal in silence: Caroline rose
once, to remove to the window-sill a glass of flowers which
stood on the side-board; the exhalation from  the blossoms
being somewhat too powerful fibr the sultry room: in returninrg, she half opened a drawer, and took from it somethling
that glittered clear and keen in her hand.
"You assigned this to me, then, Shirley-did you?  It is
bright, keen-edged, finely-tapered: it is dangerous-looking.  I
never yet felt the impulse which could move me to direct this
against a fellow-creature.  It is difficult to fancy what circumstances could nerve my arm to strike home with this long
knife."
"I should hate to do it," replied Shirley; "but I think I




298                   S IHI  LE Y.
could do it, if goaded by certain exigencies whio( h I can
imagine."  And Miss Keeldar quietly sipped her glass of
taew milk, looking somewhat thoughtful, and a little pale:
though, indeed, when did she not look pale?  She was never
florid.
The milk sipped and the bread eaten, Fanny was again
summoned: she and Eliza were recommended to go to bed,
which they were quite willing to do, being weary of the day's
exertions, of much cutting of currant-buns, and filling of urns
and teapots, and running backward and forward with trays.
Ere long the maids' chamber door was heard to close: Caroline took a candle, and went quietly all over the house, seeing
that every window was fast, and every door barred. She did
not even evade the haunted back-klitchen, nor the vault-like
cellars. These visited, she returned.
" There is neither spirit nor flesh in the house at present,"
she said, "which should not be there.  It is now near eleven
o'clock, fully bed-time, yet I would rather sit up a little
longer, if you do not object, Shirley. Htere," she continued,
" I have brought the brace of pistols from my uncle's study:
you may examine them at your leisure."
She placed them on the table before her friend.
"Why would you rather sit up longer?" asked Miss Keeldar, taking up the fire-arms, examining them, and again layinrg them down.
" Because I have a strange, excited feeling in my heart."
"So have I."
" Is this state of sleeplessness and restlessness caused by
something electrical in the air, I wonder?"
"No; the sky is clear, the stars numberless; it is a fins
night."
"But very still.  I hear the water fret over its stony bed
in Hollow's Copse as distinctly as if it ran below the churchyard wall."
"I am glad it is so still a night: a moaning wind or rusl,.
ing rain would vex me to fever just now."
"Why, Shirley?"
"Because it would baffle my efforts to listen."
" Do you listen toward the Hollow?"
"Yes; it is the only quarter whence we can hear a sound
just now."




A SUMMER NIGHT.                     299
"' The only one, Shirley."
They both sat near the window, and both leaned thlcit
truns on the sill, and both inclined their heads toward the
open lattice. They saw each other's young faces by the starlight, and that dim June twilight which does not wholly fade
trom the west till dawn begins to break in the east.
"Mr Helstone thinks we have no idea which way he is
gone," murmured Miss.Keeldar, "nor on what errand, nor
with what expectations, nor how prepared; but I guess much
-do not you?"
"I guess something."
"All those gentlemen-your cousin Mvfoore included —think
that you and I are now asleep in our beds, unconscious."
" Caring- nothing about them-hoping and fearing nothing
for them," added Caroline.
Both kept silence for full half an hour. The night was
silent, too; only the church-clock measured its course by
quarters. Some words were interchanged about the chill of
the air: they wrapped their scarfs closer round them, resumed
their bonnets, which they had removed, and again watched.
Toward midnight, the teasing, monotonous bark of the
laouse-dog disturbed the quietude of their vigil.  Caroline
rose, and made her way noiselessly through the dark passages
to the kitchen, intending to appease him with a piece of
l-read: she succeeded. On returning to the dining-room, she:~und all dark, Miss Keeldar having extinguished the candle:
the outline of her shape was visible near the still open window,
leanling out.  Miss Helstone asked no questions: she stole to
Per side. The dog recommenced barking furiously; suddenly
he stopped, and seemed to listen. The occupants of the dining.
room listened too, and not merely now to the flow of the millstream: there was a nearer, though a muffled sound on the
road below the church-yard; a measured, beating, approaching,
sound; a dull tramp of marching feet.
It drew near.  Those who listened, by degrees, compri;.
hended its extent.  It was not the tread of two, nor of a
dozen, noi of a score of men: it was the tread of hundreds.
They could see nothing; the high shrubs of the garden formed
a leafy screen between them and the road. To hear, however,
was not enough; and this they felt as the troop trode forward,
and seemed actually passing the rectory.  They felt it more




300                  BSHI RLEY.
when a human voice-though that voice s.oke but one word
— broke the hush of the night.
"Halt!"
A halt followed-the march was arrested.  Then came a
low conference, of which no word was distinguishable from
the dining-room.
"We mzust hear this," said Shirley.
She turned, took her pistols from the table, silently passed
out through the middle window of the dining-room, which
was, in fact, a glass door, stole down the walk to the gardenwall, and stood listening under the lilacs. Caroline would
not have quitted the house had she been alone, but where
Shirley went she would go. She glanced at the weapon on
the side-board, but left it behind her, and presently stood at
her friend's side. They dared not look over the wall, for fear
of being seen; they were obliged to crouch behind it.  They
heard these words
"It looks a rambling old building. Who lives in it besides
the damned parson?"
" Only three women: his niece and two servants."
" Do you know where they sleep?"
" The lasses behind: the niece in a front room."
"And Helstone."
"Yonder is his chamber. He uses burning a light; but
I see none now."
" Where would you get in?"
" If I were ordered to do his job —and he desarves it-I'd
try yond' long window. It opens to the dining-room: I could
grope my way up-stairs, and I know his chamber."
" Hlow would you manage about the women folk?"
" Let'em alone, except they shrieked, and then I'd soon
quieten'em.  I could wish to find the old chap asleep: if he
waked, he'd be dangerous."
" Has he arms?"
" Fire-arms allus-and allus loadened."' Then you're a fool to stop us here: a shot would give the
alarm -Moore would be on us before we could turn round.
VWe should miss our main object."
"You might go on, I tell you.  I'd engage Ilelstone
l one."
A, pause.  One of the party dropped some weapon, which




A SUMMER NIGHT.                    301
sang on the stone causeway; at this sound the rectory dog
barked again furiously-fiercely.
"That spoils all!" said the voice.' He'll awake; a noise
like that might rouse the dead. You did not say there was
at dog. Damn you! Forward!"
Forward they went-tramp, tramp-with mustering, manifold, slow-filing tread. They were gone.
Shirley stood erect-looked over the wall, along the road.
"Not a soul remains," she said.
She stood and mused.  "Thank God!" was the next ob.
servation.
Caroline repeated the ejaculation, not in so steady a tone.
She was trembling much; her heart was beating fast and
thick; her face was cold —her forehead damp.
"'Thank God for us!" she reiterated; "but what will
happen elsewhere? They have passed us by, that they may
make sure of others."
"' They have done well," returned Shirley, with composure:
"the others will defend themselves-they can do it —they are
prepared for them; with us it is otherwise. My finger was
on the trigger of this pistol. I was quite ready to give that
man, if he had entered, such a greeting as he little calculated
on; but behind him followed three hundred: I had neither
three hundred hands nor'three hundred weapons. I could
not have effectually protected either you, myself, or the two
poor women asleep under that roof; therefore, I again earnestly thank God for insult and peril escaped."
After a second pause, she continued, " What is it my duty
and wisdom to do next?  Not to stay here inactive, I am
glad to say, but, of course, to walk over to the Hollow."
" To the Hollow, Shirley?"
" To the Hollow?  Will you go with me i"
" Where those men are gone?"
"They have taken the highway: we should not encounter
theml. The road over the fields is as safe, silent, and solitary
as a path through the air would be. Will you go?"
"Yes," was the answer, given mechanically, not because
the speaker wished or was prepared to go, or, indeed, was
otherwise than scared at the prospect of going, but because
she felt she could not abandon Shirley.
"Then we must fasten up these windows, and leave all




302                   SHIRLEY.
as secure as we can behind us.  Do you know what we are
going for, Cary?"
" Yes-no-because you wish it."
" Is that all?  And are you so obedient to a mere caprice
of mine?  What a docile wvifb you would make to a stern
husband. The moon's face is not whiter than yours at this
rnoment; and the aspen at the gate does not tremble more
than your busy fingers; and so, tractable and terror-struck,
and dismayed and devoted, you would follow  me into the
thick of real danger! Cary, let me give your fidelity a motive: we are going for MiXoore's sake-to see if we can be of
use to him-to make an eflbrt to warn himn of what is coming.".. To be suro! I am a blind, weak fobol, and you are acute
and sensible, Shirley! I will go with you-I will gladly go
with you!"
"I do not doubt it.  You would die blindly and meekly fot
me, but you would intelligently and gladly die for Moore; but.
in truth, there is no question of death to-night. rWe run no
risk at all."
Caroline rapidly closed shutter and lattice.  "Do not feal
that I shall not have breath to run as fast as you can possibly
run, Shirley.  Take my hand-let us go straight across the
ields."
"But you can not climb walls?"
"To-night I can."
" You are afraid of hedges, and the beck which we shall be
borced to cross?"
" I can cross it."
They started-they ran.  Many a wall checked but did
not baffle them.  Shirley was sure-footed and agile; she could
spring like a deer when she chose.  Caroline, more timid, and
less dexterous, fell once or twice, and bruised herself; but she
rose again directly, saying she was not hurt.  A quickset
hedge bounded the last field; they lost time in seeking a gap
in it.  The aperture, when found, was narrow, but they
worked their way through.  The long hair, the tender skin,
the silks and the muslins suffered; but what was chiefly
regretted was the impediment this difficulty had caused to
speed. On the other side they met the beck flowing deep in
a rough bedl: at this point a narrow plank formed the only
bridge across it. Shirley had trodden the plank sluccessfill.l




A SUMMER NIGHT                      303
and fearlessly many a time before; Caroliie had nevei yet
dared to risk the transit.
" I will carry you across," said Miss Keeldar.  " You are
light, and I am not weak. Let me try."
"If I fall in, you may fish me out," was the answer, as a
grateful squeeze compressed her hand.  Caroline, without
pausing, trod forwar'd on the trembling plank as if it were a
continuation of the firm turf.  Shirley, who followed, did not
cross it more resolutely or safely.  In their present humor, on
their present errand, a strong and foaming channel would
have been a barrier to neither. At the moment, they were
above the control either of fire or water' all Stilbro' Moor,
alight and alow with bonfires, would not have stopped them,
nor would Calder or Aire thundering in flood. Yet one sound
made them pause. Scarce had they set foot on the solid opposite bank, when a shot split the air from the north.  Onet
second lapsed.  Further of; burst a like note in the south.
Within the space of three minutes, similar signals boomed in
the east and west.
"I thought we were dead at the first explosion," observed
Shirley, drawing a long breath.;' I felt myself hit in. the
temples, and I concluded your heart was pierced; but the reiterated voice was an explanation: those are signals-it is
their way-the attack must be near.  We should have had
wings; our feet have not borne us swiftly enough."
A  portion of the copse was now to clear: when they
emerged from it, the mill lay just below them: they could
look down upon the buildings, the yard; they could see the
road beyond.  And the first glance in that direction told Shir
ley she was right in her conjecture: they were already too late
to give warning: it had taken more time than they calculated
on to overcome the various obstacles which embarrassed the
short cut across the fields.
The road, which should have been white, was dark with a
moving mass: the rioters were assembled in front of the closed
yard-gates, and a single figure stood within, apparently addressing' them: the mill itself was perfectly black and still'
there was neither life, light, nor motion around it.
"Surely he is prepared: surely that is not. Moore meeting
them alone!" whispered Shirley.
"It is —-we must go to him! I will go to him."




304                   SH I RLEY.
"T zat you will not."
"Why did I come, then?  I canme only foi nim.  I shall
join him."
"Fortunately, it;s out of your power; there is n~ entrance
to the yard."
" There is a small entrance at the back, besides the gates
in front; it opens by a secret method which I know-I will
try it."
"Not with my leave."
Miss Keeldar clasped her round the waist with both arms
and held her back.  " Not one Stecp shall you stir," she went
on authoritatively.  "At this moment, Moore would be both
shocked and embarrassed, if he saw either you or me.  Men
never want women near them in time of real danger."
" I would not trouble-I would help him," was the reply.
"How?  By inspiring him with heroism?  Pooh! These
are not the days of chivalry; it is not a tilt at a tournament
we are going to behold, but a struggle about money, and food
and life."
" It is natural that I should be at his side."
" As queen of his heart?  His mill is his lady-love, Cary
Backed by his factory and his frames, he has all the encourage
ment he wants or can know. It is not for love or beauty
but for ledger and broad-cloth, he is going to break a spear
Don't be sentimental; Robert is not so."
"I could help him —1 will seek him."
"Off then-I let you go-seek Moore; you'll not find him.'
She loosened her hold.  Caroline sped like leveled shaf
from bent bow; after her rang a jesting, gibing laugh. " Lool
well there is no mistake!" was the warning given.
But there was a mistake.  Miss Helstone paused, hesitated
gazed. The figure had suddenly retreated from the gate, an(
was running back hastily to the mill.
" Make haste, Lina!" cried Shirley; "meet him before hi
enters."
Caroline slowly returned.  "It is not Robert," she said 
"it has neither his height, form, nor bearing."
"I saw it was not Robert when I let you go. How could
you imagine it   It is a shabby little figure of a private sol.
dier; they had posted him as sentinel. He is safe in the mill
now; I saw the door open and admit him.  My mind grows








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A SUMMER NIGHT.                    305
ecisier; Robert is prepared; our warning would hawv been
superfluous, and now I am thankful we came too late to give
it: it has saved us the trouble of a scene.  How fine to have
entered the counting-house' toute eperdue,' and to have found
oneself in presence of Messrs. Armitage and Ramsden smoking, Malone swaggering, your uncle sneering, iMr. Sykes sipping a cordial, and Moore himself in his cold man-of-business
vein; I am glad we missed it all."
"I wonder if there are many in the mill, Shirley."
" Plenty to defend it. The soldiers we have twice seen to —
day were going there, no doubt, and the group we noticed surrounding your cousin in the fields will be with him."
" What are they doing now, Shirley.  WVhat is that
noise?"
" I-Iatchets and crow-bars against the yard-gates; they are
Lbrcing them.  Are you aftaid?"
" No; but my heart throbs fast; I have a difficulty inl
standing: I will sit down. Do you feel unmoved?"' Hardly that-but I am glad I came; we shall see what
transpires with our own eyes; we are here on the spot, and
none know it.  Instead of amazing the curate, the clothier,
and the corn-dealer with a romantlic rush on the stage, we
stand alone with the friendly night, its mute stars, and these
whispering trees, whose report our friends will not come to
gather."
" Shirley-Shirley, the gates are down! That crash was
like the felling of great trees. Now they are pouring through.
They will break down the mill-doors as they have broken the
gate: what can Rtobert do against so many?  Would to God,
I were a little nearer him-could hear him  speak-could
speak to him! With my will-my longing to serve him-I
could not be a useless burden in his way: I could be turned
to some account"
"They come on!" cried Shirley.  "How. steadily they
march in! There is discipline in their ranks-I will not say
there:is courage; hundreds against tens are no proof of that
quality; but" (she dropped her voice) "there is sufiering and
desperation enough among them-these goads will urge them
forward."
"Forward against Robert-and they hate him.  Shirley
is there much danger they will win the day?"




306                    I IRLE Y.
"W1' shall see.  Moore and Helstone are of' earth's fiast
biood' —no bunglers —no cravens-"
A crash — smash - shiver — stopped their whispers. A
simultaneously hurled volley of stones had saluted the bload
(riont of the mill, with all its windows; and now every pane
of every lattice, lay in shattered and pounded fragments. A
ycll followed this demonstration-a rioters' yell-a North-of:
England —a Yorkshire-a WTest-Riding —a West-Ridingclothing-district-of-Yorkshire rioters' yell.  You never heard
that sound, perhaps, reader?  So much the better for your
ears-perhaps for your heart; since, if it rends the air in hate
to yourself, or to the men or principles you approve, the interests to which you wish well, wrath wakens to the cry of hate;
the lion shakes his mane, and rises to the howl of the hyena;
caste stands up, ireful, against caste; and the indignant,
wronged spirit of the middle rank bears down in zeal and scorn
on the famished and furious mass of the operative class.  It
is difficult to be tolerant-difficult to be just —in such
moments.
Caroline rose; Shirley put her arm round her; they stood
together as still as the straight stems of two trees. That yell
was a long one, and when it ceased, the night was yet full of
the swaying and murmuringo of a crowd.
"What next?" was the question of the listeners.  Nothing,'ame yet.  The mill remained nmute as a mausoleum.
"li He can not be alone!" whispered Caroline.
"I would stake all I have, that he is as little alone as he
is alarmed," responded Shirley.
Shots were discharged by the rioters.  Had the defenders
waited for this signal? It seemed so.. The hitherto inert and
passive mill woke: fire flashed from its empty window-frames;
a. volley of musketry pealed sharp through the Hollow.
"Moore speaks at last!" said Shirley, " and he seems to
have the gift of tongues; that was not a single voice."
" He has been fbrbearing; no one can accuse him cf rashness," alleged Caroline: "their discharge preceded his; they
broke his gates and his windows; they fired at his garrison
befo:e he repelled them."
WVhat was going on now?  It seemed difficult, in the darknfass, to distinguish, but something terrible, a still-renewing
tMunmlt, was'bvic-as: fierce attacks, desperate repulses; tha




A SUMMER NIGiHT.                   307
nil!-yard, the mill itself; was full of battle-movement: there
was scareply any cessation now of the discharge of fire-arms;
and there was struggling, rushing, trampling, and shouting
between. The aim of the assailants seemed to be to enter the
mill, that of the defendants to beat them of-l They heard
the rebel leader cry, "To the back, lads!" They heard a.
Voice retort,'; Come round, we will meet you!"
"To the counting-house!" was the order again.
iWelcome!-We shall have you there!'" was the response.
And accordingly, the fiercest blaze that had yet glowed, the
loudest rattle that had yet been heard, burst from the counting-house front, when the mass of rioters rushed up to it.
The voice that had spoken was Moore's own voice. They
could tell by its tones that his soul was now warm with the
conflict: they could guess that the fighting animal was roused
in every one of those men there struggling together, and was
for the time quite paramount above the rational human being.
Both the girls felt their faces glow and their pulses throb:
both knew they would do no good by rushing down into the
melee: they desired neither to deal nor to receive blows; but
they could not have run away-Caroline no more than Shirley; they could not have fainted; they could not have taken
their eyes from the dim, terrible scene-from the mass of cloud
of smoke-the musket-lightning-for the world.
"How and when would it end?" was the demand throbbing in their pulses. " Would a juncture arise in which they
could be useful?" was what they waited to see; fobr, though
Shirley put off their too-late arrival with a jest, and was ever
ready to satirize her own or any other person's enthusiasm.
she would have given a farm of her best land for a chance
of rendering good service.
The chance was not vouchsafed her-the looked-for juncture never came: it was not likely.  Mvloore had expected
this attack for days, perhaps weeks: he was prepared for it at
every point. He had fortified and garrisoned his mill, which
in itself was a strong building.  He was a cool, brave man;
he stood to the defense with unflinching firmness; those who
were with him caught his spirit and copied his demeanor
The rioters had never been so met before.  At other mills
they had attacked, they had found no resistance: an organ
iced, resolute defense was what they never dreamed of en.
0




308                   S -IIR LE Y.
countering.'When their leaders saw the steady fire kept up
from the mill, witnessed the composure and determination of
Its owner, heard themselves coolly defied and invited on to
death, and beheld their men falling wounded round them,
they felt that nothing was to be done here. In haste, they
mustered their forces, drew them away from the building; a
roll was called over, in which the men answered to figures
instead of names; they dispersed wide over the fields, leaving
silence and ruin behind them.  The attack, from its corn
mencement to its termination, kad not occupied an hour.
Day was by this time approaching: the west was dim, the
east beginning to gleam.  It would have seemed that the
girls who had watched this conflict would now wish to hasten
to the victors, on whose side all their interest had been enlisted; but they only very cautiously approached the now
battered mill, and., when suddenly a number of soldiers and
gentlemen appeared at the great door opening into the yard,
they quickly stepped aside into a shed, the deposit of old iron
and timber, whence they could see without being seen.
It was- no cheering spectacle: these premises were now a
mere blot of desolation on the fresh front of the summerdawn. All the copse up the Hollow was shady and dewy,
the hill at its head was green; but just here in the center of
the sweet glen, Discord, broken loose in the night from control, had beaten the ground with his stamping hoofs, and left
it waste and pulverized. The mill yawned all ruinous with
unglazed frames; the yard was thickly bestrewn with stones
and brickbats, and close under the mill with the glittering
fragments of the shattered windows; muskets and other
weapons lay here and there; more than one deep crimson
stain was visible on the gravel; a human body lay quiet on
its face near the gates; and five or six wounded men writhed
and moaned in the bloody dust.
- Miss Keeldar's countenance changed at this view: it was
the aftertaste of the battle, death and pain replacing excitement and exertion: it was the blackness the bright fire
leaves when its blaze is sunk, its warmth failed, and its glow
faded.
"This is what I wished to prevent," she said, in a voice
whose cadence betrayed the altered impulse of her heart.
" But you could not prevent it-you did your best —it was




A SUMMER NIGHtT.                   309
in vain," said Caroline, comfortingly.  "Don't Lrieve, Shirn
ley."
"I am sorry for those poor fellows," was the answer, while
the spark in her glance dissolved to dew.  " Ale any within
the mill hurt, I wonder? Is that your uncle?"
" It is, and there is Mr. Malone, and, 0 Shirley! there is
Robert!"
"VWell" (resuming her former tone), " don't squeeze your
fingers quite into my hand; I see; there is nothing wonderful
in that.  We knew he, at least, was here, whoever might be
absent."
" He is coming here toward us, Shirley!"
"Toward the pump, that is to say, for the purpose of
washing his hands and his forehead, which has got a scratch,
I perceive."
" He bleeds, Shirley; don't hold me-I must go."
"Not a step."
" He is hurt, Shirley!"
"Fiddlestick!"
" But I must go to him; I wish to go so much; I can not
bear to be restrained."
" What for I"
" To speak to him, to ask how he is, and what I can do
for him?"
" To tease and annoy him-to make a spectacle of yourself and him before those soldiers, Mr. Malone, your uncle, ct
cetera.  Would he like it, think you?  Would you like to
remember it a week hence 2"
" Am I always to be curbed and kept down?" demanded
Caroline, a little passionately.
"For his sake, yes; and still more for your own.  I tell
you, if you showed yourself now, you would repent it an
hour hence, and so would Robert."
" You think he would not like it, Shirley?"
" lar less than he would like our stopping him to say
good-night, which you were so sore about."
"But that was all play-there was no danger."
" And this is serious workl: he must be unmolested."
"I only wished to go to him because he is my cousin-you
unnderstand?"
["I quite understand.  But now, watch hinm.  Ho ha.s.




4310                  SHII LEY.
oathed his forehead, and the blood has ceased triclding  h t,
hurt is really a mere graze-I can see it from hence; he is
going to look after the wounded men."
Accordingly, Mr. Moore and Mr. 1-elstone went round the
yard, examining each prostrate form. They then gave directions to have the wounded taken up and carried into the mill.
This duty being performed, Joe Scott was ordered to saddle
his master's horse, and Mr. Helstone's pony, and the two
gentlemen rode away full gallop, to seek surgical aid in different directions.
Caroline was not yet pacified.
" Shirley, Shirley, I should have liked to speak one word
to him befbre he went," she murmured, while the tears gath
ered glittering in her eyes.
"Why do you cry, Lina?" aslied Miss Keeldar, a little
sternly.  "You ought to be glad instead of sorry. Robert
has escaped any serious harm-he is victorious —he has been
cool and brave in combat-he is now considerate in triumph:
is this a time —are these causes for weeping V"
" You do not know what I have in my heart," pleaded the
other: "what pain, what distraction; nor whence it arises.
I can understand that you should exult in Robert's greatness
and goodness; so do I, in one sense, but in another, I feel so
miserable. I am too far removed from him: I used to be
nearer. Let me alone, Shirley: do let me cry a few minutes;
it relieves me."
Miss Keeldar, feeling her tremble in every limb, ceased to
expostulate with her: she went out of the shed, and left her
to weep in peace.  It was the best plan: in a few minutes
Caroline rejoined her, much calmer: she said, with her nat.ural, docile, gentle manner" Come, Shirley, we will go home now. I promise not to
try to see Robert again till he asks for me. I never will try
to push myself on him.  I thank you for restraining me just
now."))
"I did it with a good intention," returned Mliss Keeldar.
" Now, dear Lina," she continued; "let us turn our faeet,
to the cool morning breeze, and walk very quietly back to the
reetory. We will steal in as we stole out: none shall know
where we have been, or what we have seen to-night: neither




TO-MORROW.                       311
taunt nor misconstruction can consequently nlolcst us. Totu.orrow, we will see Robert, and be of good cheer; but I will
Fay no mnore, lest I should begin to cry too. I seem hard toward yoll, but I am not so."
CHAPTER XX.
TO-MORROW.
THE two girls met no living soul on their way back to the
rectory: they let themselves in noiselessly; they stole up-stairs
unheard: the breaking morning gave them what light they
needed.  Shirley sought her couch immediately; and, though
the room was strange-for she had never slept at the rectory
betibre-and though the recent scene was one unparalleled for
excitement and terror, by any it had hitherto been her lot to
witness, yet, scarce was her head laid on the pillow, ere a deep,
refreshing sleep closed her eyes, and calmed her senses.
Perfect health was Shirley's enviable portion; though
warm-hearted and sympathetic, she was not nervous: powertul emotions could rouse and sway, without exhausting her
spirit: the tempest troubled and shook her while it lasted;
but it left her elasticity unbent, and her freshness quite unblighted.  As every day brought her stimulating emotion, so
every night yielded her recreating rest. Caroline now watched
her sleeping, and read the serenity of her mind in the beauty
of her happy countenance.
For herself, being of a diferent temperament, she could not
sl!e6. The common-place excitement of the tea-drinking and
school-gathering would alone have sufficed to make her restless all night: the effect of the terrible drama which had just
been enacted before her eyes was not likely to quit her for
days. It was vain even to try to retain a recumbent posture:
she sat up by Shirley's side, counting the slow minutes, and
watching the June sun mount the heavens.
Life wastes fast in such vigils as Caroline had of late but too
often l; pt; vigils, during which the mind-having no pleasant




312                    SHI R LEY.
food to nourish it-no rranna of hope-no hived honey eo'
joyous memories-tries to live on the meager diet of wishes, and
failing to derive thence either delight or support, and feeling
Itself ready to perish with craving want, turns to philosophy,
to resolution, to resignation; calls on 1ll these gods for aid,
calls vainly-is unheard, unhelped, and languishes.
Caroline was a ChristianL; therefore in trouble she framed
many a prayer after tile Christian creed; preferred it with
deep earnestness; begged for patience, strength, relief. This
world, however, we all know, is the scene of trial and probation; and, for any favorable result her petitions had yet
wrought, it seemed to her that they were unheard and unaccepted  She believed, sometimes, that God had turned his
face from her. At moments she was a Calvinist, and sinking
into the gulf of religious despair, she saw darkening over her
the doom of reprobation.
Most people have had a period or periods in their lives
when they have felt thus forsaken; when, having long hoped
against hope, and still seen the day of fruition deferred, their
hearts have truly sickened within them.  This is a terrible
hour, but it is often that darkest point which precedes the rise
of day; that turn of the year when the icy January wines
carries over the waste at once the dirge of departing winter,
and the prophecy of coming spring.  The perishing birds,
however, can not thus understand the blast before which
they shiver; and as little can the suffering soul recognize, in
the climax of its affliction, the dawn of its deliverance. Yet,
let whoever grieves still cling fast to love and faith in God.
God will never deceive, never finally desert him.  " Whom
He loveth, He chasteneth." These words are true, and should
not be forgotten.
The household was astir at last: the servants were up,
the shutters were opened below. Caroline, as she quitted the
couch, which had been but a thorny one to her, felt that revival of spirits which the return of day, of action, gives to all
but the wholly despairing or actually dying: she dressed herself, as uma.,: carefully, trying so to arrange her hair and
attire that nothing of the forlornness she felt at heart should
be visible externally: she looked as fresh as Shirley when
both were dressed, only that Miss Keeldar's eyes were lively,
and MTiss Heistone's languid.




TO-MORROW.                       31m
"To-day, I shall have much to say to Moore,' were Shirfey's first words; and you could see in her face that life was
fail of interest, expectation, and occupation for her. " He will
have to undergo cross-examination," she added: "I dare say
he thinks he has outwitted me cleverly. And this is the way
men deal with women; still concealing danger from them:
thinking, I suppose, to spare them pain.  They imagined we
little knew where they were to-night: we knozo they little
conjectured where we were. Men, I believe, fancy women's
minds something like those of children.  Now, that is a
mistake."
This was said as she stood at the glass, training her naturally waved hair into curls, by twining it round her fingers.
She took up the theme again five minutes after, as Caroline
iastened her dress and clasped her girdle.
"If men could see us as we really are, they would be a
ittle amazed; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often
under an illusion about women: they do not read them in a
true light; they misapprehend them, both for good and evil
their good woman is a queer thing, half doll, half angel:
their bad woman almost always a fiend.  Then to hear them
fall into ecstasies with each other's creations, worshiping the
heroine of such a poem-novel —drama, thinking it fine —
divine! Fine and divine it may be, but often quite artificial
— false as the rose in my best bonnet there.  If I spoke all 1
think on this point; if I gave my real opinion of some firstrate female characters in first-rate works, where should I be?
Dead undera cairn of avenging stones in half an hour."
"Shirley, you chatter so, I can't fasten you: be still. And,
after all, authors' heroines are almost as good as authoresses
heroes."
"Not at all: women read men more truly than men read
women. I'll prove that in a magazine paper some day when
I've time; only it will never be inserted: it will be' declined
with thanks,' and left for me at the publishers."
"' To be sure: you could not write cleverly enough, you
don't know enough; you are not learned, Shirley."
"God knows, I can't contradict you, Cary: I'm as ignorant
as a stone.  There's one comfort, however, you are not much
better,"'
T''hey descended to breakfast.




314                   S 1i I F RLEY no
"I wonder how Mrs. Pryor and Hortense ~Moore lbaws
passed the night," said Caroline, as she inade the coff'ee.
"Selfish being that I am! I never thourrht of either of themr
till just now: they will have heard all the tumult, Fieldhead
and the cottage are so near; and Hottense is timid in such
matters; so, no doubt, is Mrs. Pryor."
"Take my word for it, Lina, Moore will have contrived to
get his sister out of the way, she went home with Miss Mann;
he will have quartered her there for the night.  As to Mrs.
Pryor, I own I am uneasy about her; but in another halfhour we will be with her."
By this time the news of what had happened at the Hollow
was spread all over the neighborhood. Fanny, who had been
to Fieldhead to fetch the milk, returned in panting haste,
with tidings that there had been a battle in the night at Mr.
~Moore's mill, and that some said twenty men were killed.
Eliza, during Fanny's absence, had been apprized by the
butcher's boy that the mill was burnt to the ground.  Both
wemen rushed into the parlor to announce these terrible facts
to the ladies, terminating their clear and accurate narrative
by the assertion that they were sure master must have been
in it all: he and Thomas, the cle.rk, they were confident,
must have gone last night to join Mr. Moore and the soldiers,
Mr. Malone, too, had not been heard of at his lodgings since
yesterday afternoon; and Joe Scott's wife and family were in
the greatest distress, wondering what had become of their head.
Scarcely was this information imparted when a knock af
the kitchen-door announced the Fieldhead errand-boy, arrived
in hot haste, bearing a billet from Mrs. Pryor. It was hurriedly written, and urged Miss Keeldar to return directly, as
the neighborhood and the house seemed likely to be all in
confusion, and orders would have to be given which the mistress of the hall alone could regulate.  In a postscript it was
entreated that M1iss Helstone might not be left alone at the
rectory: she had better, it was suggested, accompany Miss
Keeldar.
"There are not two opinions on that head," said Shirley,
as she tied on her own bonnet, and then ran to fetch Caroline's.
",But what will Fanny art Eliza do?  And if my nncil
returns?'




TO MORROW.                      315
"Youi uncle will not return yet; he has other fi.h to fry:
he will be galloping backward and forward from Briarfield ta
Stilbro' all day, rousing the magistrates in the court-house,
and the officers at the barracks; and Fanny and Eliza can
have in Joe Scott's and the clerk's wives, to bear them company. Besides, of course, there is no real danger to be appre.
hended now: weeks will elapse before the rioters can again
rally, or plan any other attempt; and I am much mistaken
if Moore and Mr. Helstone will not take advantage of last
night's outbreak to quell them altogether: they will frighten
the authorities of Stilbro' into energetic measures.  I only
hope they will not be too severe-not pursue the discomfiteG
too relentlessly."
"Robert will not be cruel: we saw that last night," said
Caroline.
"'But he will be hard," retorted Shirley; "and so will
your uncle."
As they hurried along the meadow and plantation-path to
Fieldhead, they saw the distant highway already alive with
an unwonted flow of equestrians and pedestrians, tending in
the direction of the usually solitary Hollow. On reaching
the hall, they found the back-yard gates open, and the court
and kitchen seemed crowded with excited milk-fetchers —
men, women, and children, whom Mrs. Gill, the housekeeper,
appeared vainly persuading to take their milk-cans and depart.
(It is, or was, by-the-by, the custom in the north of England
fobr the cottagers on a country squire's estate, to receive their
supplies of milk and butter from the dairy of the manor-house,
on whose pastures a herd of milch kine was usually fed for
the convenience of the neighborhood.  Miss Keeldar owned
such a herd-all deep-dewlapped, Craven cows, reared on the
sweet herbage and clear waters of bonnie Airedale; and very
proud she was of their sleek aspect and high condition.) Seeing,now the state of matters, and that it was desirable to
effect a clearance' of the premises, Shirley stepped in among
the gossiping groups.  She bade them good-morning, with a
certain frank, tranquil ease-the natural characteristic of her
manner, when she addressed numbers: especially if thosle
numbers belonged to the working-class; she was cooler among
her equals, and rather proud to those above her.  She their
asked them if they had all got their milk mreasured out, ani
0*




316                   S II RLEY.
understanding that they had, she further observed that she
"wondered what they were waiting for, then."
"-We're just talking  a bit over this battle there has been
at your miln, mistress," replied a maen.
" Talking a bit! Just like you!" said Shirley.  " It's a
queer thing that all the world is so fond of talking over
events: you talk if any body dies suddenly; you talk if a fire
breaks out; you talk if a mill-owner fails; you talk if he's
murdered.  What good does your talking do?"
There is nothing the lower orders like better than a little
downright, good-humored rating. Flattery they scorn very
much: honest abuse they enjoy.  They call it speaking
plainly, and take a sincere delight in being the objects thereof.
The homely harshness of Miss Keeldar's salutation won her
the ear of the whole throng in a second.
"We're no war nor some'at is aboon us; are we?" asked
a man, smiling.
" Nor a whit better: you that should be models of industry are just as gossip-loving as the idle.  Fine, rich people
ihat have nothing to do, may be partly excused for trifling
their time away; you, who have to earn your bread by the
sweat of your brow, are quite inexcusable."
"That's queer, mistress: suld we never have a holiday
because we work hard?'
" Never," was the prompt answer; "unless," added the'mistress," with a srmile that half-belied the severity of her
speech, " unless you knew how to make a better use of it than
to get together over rumin and tea, if you are women, or over
beer and pipes, if you are men, and talk scandal at your neighbors' expense. Come, friends," she added, changing at once
from bluntness to courtesy, "oblige me by taking your canrs
and going home.  I expect several persons to call to-day, and
it will be inconvenient to have the avenues to the house
crowded."
Yorkshire people are as yielding to persuasion as they are.stubborn against compulsion.  The yard was clear in five
minutes.
" Thank you, and good-by to you, friends," said Shirley, as
she closed the gates on a quiet court.
Now, let me hear the most refined of cockneys presume to
iind fault with Yorkshire manulers! Taken as they ought. to




T O- M OIt RO R v.               317
be. the majority of the lads and lasses of the Vest-1Riding
are gentlemen and ladies, every inch of them; it is only
against the weak affectation and futile pomrnposity of a wouldbe aristocrat they turn mutinous.
Entering by the back-way, the young ladies passed through
the kitchen (or houzse, as the inner k;tchen is called) to the
hall.  Mrs. Pryor came running down the oak staircase to
meet them. She was all unner-ved; her naturally sanguine
complexion was pale; her usually placid, though timid, blue
eye was wandering, unsettled, alarmred.  She did not, however, break out into any exclamrrations, or hurried narrative of
what had happened.  I-Her predominant feeling had been in
the course of the night, and was now this morning, a sense
of dissatisfaction with heiseif that she could not feel firmer,
cooler, more equal to the demands of the occasion.
"You are aware," she began, with a trembling voice, and
yet the most conscientious anxiety to avoid exaggeration in
what she was about to say, "that a body of' rioters has
attacked Mr. Moore's naill to night; we heard the firing and
confusion very plainly here. aWe none of us slept. It was a
Ead night; the house has been in great bustle all the morning
with people coming and going; the servants have applied to
me for orders and directions, which I really did not feel warranted in giving.  Mr. Moore has, I believe, sent up for refieshments for the soldiers and others engaged in the defense;
for some conveniences also for the wounded. I could not unlertale the responsibility of giving orders or taking measures.
I fear delay may have been injurious in some instances; but
this is not my house.  You were absent, my dear Miss Keeldar-what could I do?"
"' Were no refreshments sent?" asked Shirley, while her
countenance, hitherto so clear, propitious, and quiet, even
while she was rating the milk-fietchers, suddenly turned dark
and warm.
"I think not, my dear."
"And nothing fobr the wounded? no linen —no wine-nb
bedding?"
"I think not.  I can not tell wnat Mrs. Gill did; but ii
seeined impossible to me, at the moment, to venture to dispose
of your property by sending supplies to soldiers-provisions foir
a company of soldiers sounds fbrmidable.  IIow many there




318                   SH I R LE Y.
are I did not ask; but I could not think of allowing thel;i to
pillage the house, as it were.  I intended to do. what was
iight, yet I did not see the case quite clearly, I own."
" It lies in a nutshell, notwithstanding.  These soldiers
have risked their lives in defense of my property- I suppose
they have a right to my gratitude: the wounded are our fellow creatures-I suppose we should aid them. Mrs. Gill!"
She turned, and called in a voice more clear than soft. It
rung through the thick oak of the hall and kitchen doors
more effectually than a bell's summons.  Mrs. Gill, who wa
deep in bread-baking, came with hands and apron in culinar,
ease, not having dared to stop to rub the dough from the one,
or to shake the flour from the other.  1-Ier mistress had
never called a servant in that voice save once before, and that
was when she had seen from the window Tartar in frill tut
with two carriers' dogs, each of them a match for him ill
size, if not in courage, and their masters standing by, encour
aging their animals, while hers was unbefriended: then, indeed, she had summoned John, as if the day of Judgment
were at hand: nor had she waited for the said John's coming,
but had walked out into the lane bonnetless; and after informing the carriers that she held them far less of' men than the
three brutes whirling and worrying in the dust before them,
had put her hands round the thick neck of the largest of the
curs and given her whole strength to the essay of choking it
from Tartar's torn and bleeding eye, just above and below
which organ the vengeful fangs were inserted.  Five or six
men were presently on the spot to help her, but she never
thanked one of them: " They might have come before, if
their will had been good," she said. She had not a word for
any body during the rest of the day; but sat near the hall fire
till evening watching and tending Tartar, who lay, all gory,
stiff and swelled, on a mat at her feet.  She wept furtively
over hlim sometimes, and murmured the softest Words of pity
and endearment in tones whose music the old, scarred canine
warrior acknowledged by licking her hand or her sandal,
alternately with his own red wounds.  As to John, his lady
turned a cold shoulder on himr for a week afterward.
Mrs. Gill, remembering this little episode, came " all of a
tremble," as she said herself.  In a firm, brief' voice, Miss
Keeldar proceeded to ~put questions and give orders. That at




TO-MORROW                      319
sach a time Fieldhead should have evinced the inhospitality
of a miser's hovel, stung her haughty spirit to the quick; and
the revolt of its pride was seer, in the heaving of her heart:
stirred stormily under the lace and silk which vailed it.
" I-ow long is it since that message came from the mill?"
"Not an hour yet, ma'am," answered the housekeeper,
soothingly.
"N lot an hour! You might almost as well have said not
a day.  They will have applied elsewhere by this tire.
Send a man instantly down to tell them that every thing
this house contains is at Mr. Moore's, Mr. Helstone's, and
the soldiers' service. Do that first!"
While the order was being executed, Shirley moved away
from her friends, and stood at the hall-window, silent, unapproachable.  When Mrs. Gill came back, she turned: the
purple flush which painful excitement kindles on a pale cheek,
glowed on hers: the spark which displeasure lights in a dark
eye fired her glance.
"Let the contents of the larder and the wine-cellar be
brought up, put into the hay-carts, and driven down to the
Hollow. If there does not happen to be much bread or much
meat in the house, go to the butcher and baker, and desire
them to send what they have: but I will see for myself:"
She moved off.
"All will be right soon: she will get over it in an hour,"
whispered Caroline to Mrs. Pryor.  "Go up-stairs, dear
kmadam," she added affectionately, " and try to be as calm
and easy as you can.  The truth is, Shirley will blame herrelf more than you before the day is over."
By dint of a few more gentle assurances and persuasions,
lMiss IHelstone contrived to soothe the agitated lady. Having
accompanied her to her apartment, and promised to rejoin her
there when things were settled, Caroline left her to see, as
she said, " if she could be useful." She presently found that
she could be very useful; for the retinue of servants at Fieldhead was by no means numerous, and just now their mistress
fbund plenty of occupation for all the hands at her command,
and fnir her own also. The delicate good-nature and dexterous
actiuaity which {'aroline brought to the aid of the housekeeper
andt maids-all somewhat scared by their lady's unwonred
uQood. —edd a world of good at once: it helped the assistants




320                   SHIRLEY.
and appeased the directress. A chance glar.cc and smile from
Caroline moved Shirley to an answering smile directly. The
fobrmer was carrying a heavy basket up the cellar-stairs.
"This is a shame'" cried Shirley, running to her.  "It
w;ill strain your arm."
She took it from her, and herself bore it out into the yard.
The cloud of temper was dispelled when she came back;
the flash in her eye was melted; the shade on her forehead
vanished: she resumed her usual cheerful and cordial manner
to those about her, tempering her revived spirits with a little
of the softness of shame at her previous unjust anger.
She was still superintending the lading of the cart, when
a gentleman entered the yard and approached her, ere she
nvas aware of his presence.
" I hope I see Miss Keeldar well, this morning?" he said,
examining with rather significant scrutiny her still flushed
face.
She gave him a look, and then again bent to her employment, without reply. A pleasant enough smile played on her
lips, but she hid it. The gentleman repeated his salutation,
stooping, that it migh]t reach her ear with more facility.
" Well enough, if she be good enough," was the answer;
" and so is Mr. Moore too, I dare say. To speak truth, I am
not anxious about him; some slight mischance would be only
his just due: his conduct has been-we will say stirange, just
now, till we have time to characterize it by a more exact
epithet.  Meantime, may I ask what brings him here 1"
"Mr. Helstone and I have just received your message, that
every thing at Fieldhead was at our service. WTe judged, by
the unlimited wording of the gracious intimation, that you
would be giving yourself too rnuch trouble: I perceive, our
conjecture was correct. WV7e are not a regiment, remember:
only about half a dozen soldiers, and as many civilians. Allow
me to retrench something from these too abundant supplies."
Miss Keeldar blushed, while she laughed at her own
over-eager generosity, and most disproportionate calculations.
Moore laughed too-very quietly, though; and as quietly, he
or(lered basket after basket to be taken fromn the cart, and
remanded vessel after vessel to the cellar.
" The rector must hear of' this," he said: "he wAIl make
a good stery of it.  What an excellent army-contractor MLisS




TO-MORROW                        321
Keeldar would have been!" again he laughed, adding —" It
is precisely as I conjectured."
"You ought to be thankful," said Shirley, " and not mock
mne.  What could I do I  How could I gauge your appetite,,r number your band? For aught I knew, there might have
been fifty of you, at least, to victual.  You told me nothing;
and then, an application to provision to provision soldiers naturally suggests
large ideas."
"It appears so," remarked Moore, leveling another of his
keen, quiet glances at the discomfited Shirley.  "Now," he
continued, addressing the carter, " I think you may take what
remains to the Hollow. Your load will be somewhat lighter
than the one Miss Keeldar destined you to carry."
As the vehicle rumbled out of the yard, Shirley, rallying her
spirits, demanded what had become of the wounded.
" There was not a single man hurt on our side," was the
answer.
" You were hurt yourself, on the temples," interposed a
quick, low voice-that of Caroline, who, having withdrawn
within the shade of the door, and behind the large person of
Mrs. Gill, had till now escaped Moore's notice: when she
y.poke, his eye searched the obscurity of her retreat.
" Are you much hurt." she inquired.
" As you may scratch your finger with a needle in sewing."
" Lift your hair, and let us see."
He took his hat off, and did as he was bid, disclosing only
a narrow slip of court-plaster.  Caroline indicated, by a slight
movement of the head, that she was satisfied, and disappeared
within the clear-obscure of the interior.
"How did she know I was hurt " asked Moore.
" By rumor, no doubt.  But it is too good in her to trouble
herself about you.  For my part, it was of your victims I
was thinking when I inquired after the wounded: what damage have your opponents sustained."
One of the rioters, or victims, as you call them, was killed,
and six were hurt."
" What have you done with themrn  "
"What you will perfectly approve.  Mle:.;eal aid was pro.
cured immediately; and as soon as we can get a couple,f
overedl wagons, and some clean straw, they will be rtemover0d
m Stilbro'."




322                   SHIRLEY.
"Straw! you must have beas and bedding.  I will send
ray wagon. directly, properly furnished; and Mr. Yorke, I amn
sure, will send his."
"You guess correctly: lie has volunteered already; and
Mrs. Yorke —who, like you, seems disposed to regard the
rioters as martyrs, and me, and especially Mr. Helstone, as
murderers-is at this moment, I believe, most assiduously
engaged in fitting it up with feather-beds, pillows, bolsters,
blankets, &c.  The victims lack no attentions-I promise
you.  Mr. Hall-your favorite parson-has been with them
ever since six o'clock, exhorting them, praying with them
and even waiting on them  like any nurse; and Caroline'i
good friend, Miss Ainley, that very plain old maid, sent inL a
stock of lint and linen, something in the proportion of another
lady's allowance of beef and wine."
"  That will do.  Where is your sister?"
"Well cared-for.  I had her securely domiciled with Miss
Mann.  This very morning the two set out for Wormwood
Wells (a noted watering-place), and will stay there some
weeks."
"So Mr. Helstone domiciled me at the rectory! Mighty
clever you gentlemen think you are! I make you heartily
welcome to the idea, and hope its savor, as you chew the cud
of reflection upon it, gives you pleasure.  Acute and astute,
why are you not also omniscient?  How is it that events
transpire, under your very noses, of which you have no suspicion. It should be so, otherwise the exquisite gratification
of out-manneuvring you would be unknown. Al! friend, you
may search my countenance, but you can not read it."
Moore, indeed, looked as if he could not.
" You think me a dangerous specimen of my sex.  Do3n',
you now."
"A peculiar one, at least."
But Caroline-is she peculiar?"
"In her way-yes."
" Hler way   W That is her way."
"You know her as well as I do."
"' And knowing   her, I assert that she is neithfer eccentrc
o:-r difficult of control: is she 2"
"That depends —"
"H.owever, there is nothing masculine about her!"




MRS. PRYOR.                     323
"Why lay such emphasis on her?  Do you consider her a
contrast, in that respect, to yourself3"
"You do, no doubt: but that does not signify.  Caroline
is neither mansculine, nor of what they call the spirited order
of wVOmnnel1."
"I have seen her flash out."
"So have I-but not with manly fire: it was a short,
vivid, trembling glow, that shot up, shone, vanished —"
"And left her seared at her own daring.  You describe
others besides Caroline."
" The point I wish to establish is, that Miss Helstone,
though gentle, tractable, and candid enough, is still perfectly
capable of defying even Mr. Moore's penetration."
" MThat have you and she been doing 3" asked Moore, suddenly.
" Have you had any breakfast?"
" What is your mutual mystery 2"
" If you are hungry, Mirs. Gill will give you something to eat
here.  Step into the oak-parlor, and ring the bell-you will
be served as if at an inn; or, if you like better, go back to the
5iollow."
"'rhe alternative is not open to me: I must go back.:ood(l-uorning: the first leisure I have, I will see you again 
CHAPTER XXI.
MIRS -PtRYO.
WHILE Shirley was talking with Moore, Caroline reJoined
Mrs. Pryor up-stairs.  She found that lady deeply depressed.
She would not say that Miss Keeldar's hastiness ha(l hurt her
feelings; but it was evident an inward wound galled her. To
any but a congenial nature, she would have seemed insensibl,
to the quiet, tender attentions by whiclh Miss Helstone sought
to impart solace; but Caroline knew that, unmoved or slightly
moved as she looked, she felt, valued, and was heaklt:i t1
thenm.




324                    SHIRLEY.
I"I am d1eficient in self-confidence and decision," she sald a
last.  "I always have been deficient in those qualities; yet
17 think Miss Keeldar should have lknown my character well
enough by this time, to be aware that I always feel an even
painful solicitude to do right, to act for the best. The unusual
nature of thle demand on my judgment puzzled me, especially
fbllowing the alarms of the night. I could not venture to act
promptly for another: but I trust no serious harm will result
from my lapse of firmness."
A gentle knock was heard at the door: it was half opened
" Caroline, come here," said a low voice.
Miss Ielstone went out: there stood Shirley in the gallery,
looking contrite, ashamed, sorry as any repentant child.
" How is Mrs. Pryor." she asked.
" Lather out of spirits," said Caroline.
"I have behaved very sharnefully, very ungenerously, very
ungratefully to her," said Shirley.  " How insolent in me to
turn on her thus, for what, after all, was no fault, only an
excess of conscientiousness on her part.  But I regret my
error most sincerely: tell her so, and ask if she will forgive
me."
Caroline discharged the errand with heartfelt pleasure.
MIrs. Pryor rose, came to the door: she did not like scenes;
she dreaded them, as all timid people do: she said, falteringly"' Come in, my dear."
Shirley did come in with some impetuosity: she threw nle
arms round her governess, and while she kissed her heartily,
she said" You know you must forgive me, Mrs. Pryor.  I could
not get on at all, if there was a misunderstanding between
you and me."
"I have nothing to forgive," was the reply.  "We will
pass it over now, if you please.  The final result of the inci.
dent is, that it proves more plainly than ever how unequal I
am to certain crises."
And that was the painful feeling which would remain onl
AMrs. Pryor's mind: no effort of Shirley's or Caroline's could
efface it thence: she could forgive her offending pupil, not hei
irrnocent self.
Miss Keeldar, doomed to be in constant request during the




MRS. F RYOR.                    325
raornlmtg, was prcsently summoned down-stairs again.  The
rector called first: a lively welcome and livelier reprimand
were at his service; he expected both, and, being in high
spirits, took tlhem in equally good part.
In the course of his brief visit, he quite forgot to ask after
his niece: the riot, the rioters, the mill, the magistrates, the
heiress, aksorbed all his thoughts to the exclusion of family
ties. IHe alluded to the part himself and curate had taken in
the defense of the Hollow.
" The vials of pharisaical wrath will be emptied on oui
heads, for our share in this business," he said; "but'I defy
every calumniator.  I was there only to support the law, to
play my part as a man and a Briton; which characters I
deem quite compatible with those of the priest and Levite, in
their highest sense.  Your tenant, Moore," he went on, " has
won my approbation. A cooler commander I would not wish
to see, nor a more determined.  Besides, the man has shown
sound judgment and good sense; first, in being thoroughly
prepared fobr the event which has taken place, and subsequently when his well-concerted plans had secured him success, in knowing how to use, without abusing his victory.
Some of the magistrates are now well frightened, and, like all
cowards, show a tendency to be cruel; Moore restrains them
with admirable prudence.  He has hitherto been very unpopular in the neighborhood; but, mark my words, the tide of
opinion will now take a turn in his favor: people will find
out that they have not appreciated him, and will hasten to
remedy their error; and he, when he perceives the public
disposed to acknowledge his merits, will show a more gracious
_nien than that with which he has hitherto favored us."
Mr. Helstone was about to add to this speech some half,
jeering, half-serious warnings to Miss Keeldar, on the subject
of her rumored partiality for her talented tenant, when a ring
at the door, announcing another caller, checked his raillery;
and as that other caller appeared in the form of a white-haired,
elderly gentleman, with a rather truculent countenance and
disdainful eye-in short, our old acquaintance, and the rector's
old enemy, Mr. Yorke, the priest and Levite, seized his hat,
and with the briefest of adieus to Miss Keeldar, and the stern.
est of nods to her guest, took an abrupt leave.
Mr. Yorke was in no mild mood, and in no mneasured termna




32G. SHIRLEY.
did he express his opinion on the transaction of the ntight'
Moore, the magistrates, the soldiers, the mob-leaders, each
and all came ia Ifor a share of his invectives; but he reserved
his strongest epithets-and real, racy Yorkshire Doric adjectives they were-for the benefit of the fighting parsons, the
"sanguinary, demoniac" rector and curate. According to him,
the cup of ecclesiastical guilt was now f-1ll indeed.
"The Church," he said, "was in a bonnie pickle now: it
was time it came down, when parsons took to swaggering
M.mang soldiers, blazing away wi' bullet and gunpowder, taking
the lives of far honester men than themselves."
"What would Moore have done, if nobody had helped
ihirrt?" asked Shirley.
" Drunk as he'd brewed-eaten as he'd baked."
" WVhich means, you would have left him by himself to face
that mob.  Good.  He has plenty of' courage; but the greatest amount of gallantry that ever garrisoned one human brreast
could scarce avail against two hundred."
" Ile had the soldiers; those poor slaves who hire out their
own blood and spill other folks' for money."
"You abuse soldiers almost as much as you abuse clergymen.  All who wear red coats are national refuse in your
eyes, and all who -ear black are national swindlers.  Mr.
Moore, according to you, did wrong to get military aid, and
he did still worse to accept of any other aid.  Your way of
talking armounts to this:-he should have abandoned his mill
and his life to the rage of a set of' misguided madmen, and
Mr. Helstone and every other gentleman in the parish should
have looked on, and seen the building razed and its owner
slaughtered, and never stirred a finger to save either."
" If nMoore had behaved to his men from the beginning  as
a master ought to behave, they never would have entertained
their present feelings toward him."
"Easy for you to talk," exclaimed Miss Keeldar, who was
beginning to wax warm in her tenant's cause: "you, whoso
family have lived at Briarmains for six generations, to whose
person the people have been accustomed fbr fifty years, who
know all their ways, prejudices, and preferences.  Easy, in.
deed, for you to act so as to avoid offending them; but 1lMr
Moore came a stranger into the district: he came here powe
and friendless, with nothing but his own energies to back himn




MRS. PRYOR.                     327
nothing but his honor, his talent and his industry, to make his
way for him. A monstrous crime indeed that, under such
circumstances, he could not popularize his naturally grave,
quiet manners, all at once: could not be jocular and free, and:rcrdial with a strange peasantry, as you are with your fellow
townsmen! An unpardonable transgression, that when he
introduced improvements he did not go about the business in
quite the most polite way; did not gradate his changes as
delicately as a rich capitalist might have done! For errors
of this sort is he to be the victim of mob-outrage? Is he to
be denied even the privilege of defending himself?  Are those
who have the hearts of men in their breasts (and Mr. Helstone
-say what you will of' him-has such a heart) to be reviled
like malefactors because they stand by him-because the)y
venture to espouse the cause of one against two hundred?"
"Come-come now-be cool," said Mr. Yorke, smiling at
the earnestness with which Shirley multiplied her rapid questions.
"Cool?  Must I listen coolly to downright nonsense-to
dangerous nonsense?  NTo.  I like you very well, Mr. Yorke,
as you know; but I thoroughly dislike some of your principles.
All that cant-excuse me but I repeat the word-all that
cant about soldiers and parsons is most offensive in my ears.
All ridiculous, irrational crying up of one class, whether the
same be aristocrat or democrat-all howling down of another
class, whether clerical or military-all exacting injustice to
individuals, whether monarch or mendicant-is really sickening to me: all arraying of ranks against ranks, all party
hatreds, all tyrannies disguised as liberties, I reject and wash
my hands of.  You think you are a philanthropist; you think
you are an advocate of liberty; but I will tell you this-MIr.
Hall, the parson of Nunnely, is a better friend both of man
and freedom, than Hiram Yorke, the Reformer of Briarfield."
From a man, Mr. Yorke would not have borne this language very patiently, nor would he have endured it from some
women; but he accounted Shirley both honest and pretty,
and her plain-spoken ire amused him: besides, he took a secret
pleasure in hearing her defend her tenant, for we have already
intimated he had Robert BMoore's interest very much at heart:
moreover, if he wished to avenge himself for her severity, hl
knew the means lay in his i-ower: a word: he believed, would




328                   SHIRLEY.
suffice to tainme and silence her, to cover her frank forehead
with the rosy shadow of shame, and vail the glow of her eye
under down-drooped lid and lash.
"W hat more hast thou to say?" he inquired as she paused,
rather, it appeared, to take breath than because her subject or
her zeal was exhausted.
"Say, Mr. Yorke?" was the answer, tile speaker meantime walking fast from wall to wall of the oak-parlor.  " Say?
I have a great deal to say, if I could get it out in lucid order,
which I never can do.  I have to say that your views, and
those of most extreme politicians, are such as none but men in
an irresponsible position can advocate; that they are purely
opposition views, meant only to be talked about, and never intended to be acted on.  Make you prime minister of England
to-morrow, and you would have to abandon them.  You
abuse Moore for defending his mill; had you been in Moore's
place you could not with honor or sense have acted otherwise
than he acted. You abuse Mr. Helstone for every thing he
does: Mr. Helstone has his faults: he sometimes does wrong,
but oftener right.  Were you ordained vicar of Briarfield, you
would find it no easy task to sustain all the active schemes
for the benefit of the parish, planned and persevered in by
your predecessor.  I wonder people can not judge more fairly
of each other and themselves.  When I hear Messrs. Malone
and Donne chatter about the authority of the Church, the
dignity and claims of the priesthood, the deference due to
them as clergymen; when I hear the outbreaks of their small
sp.ite against -Dissenters; when I witness their silly, narrow
jealousies and assumptions; when their palaver about fornis,
and traditions, and superstitions is sounding in my ear: when
I behold their insolent carriage to the poor, their often baso
servility to the rich, I think the Establishment is indeed in a
poor way, and both she and her sons appear in the utmost
need of reformation.  Turning away distressed from minstertower and village spire-ay, as distressed as a churchwarden
who feels the exigence of whitewash, and has not wherewithal
to purchase lime-I recall your senseless sarcasms on the' fat
bishops,' the'pampered parsons,''old mother church,' &c.,
I remember your strictures on all who differ from you, youi
sweeping condemnation of classes and individuals, without the
slightest allowance made -fr circumstances or toemiltationsl;




MRI S. P.tY  I,.                329
end then, Mr. Yorke, doubt clutches my inmost heart as to
whether men exist clement, reasonable, and just enough to be
intrusted with the task of reform.  I don't believe you are of
the number.
" You have an ill opinion of me, Miss Shlrley: you never
told me so much of your mind before."
"I never had an opening; but I have sac on Jessy's stool
by your chair in the back-parlor at lriaimains, for evenings
together, listening excitedly to your talk, half-admiring what
you said, and half-rebelling against it.  I think you a fine old
Yorkshireman, sir: I am proud to have been born in the
same county and parish as yourself-truthful, upright, independent you are, as a rock based below seas; but also you are
harsh, rude, narrow, and merciless."
" Not to the poor, lass-nor to the meek of the earth-only
to the proud and high-minded."
"And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions?
-A prouder-a higher-minded man than yourself does not
exist. You find it easy to speak comfortably to your inferiors
-you are too haughty, too ambitious, too jealous to be civil
to those above you. But you are all alike. HIelstone also is
proud and prejudiced.  PMoore, though juster and more considerate than either you or the rector, is still haughty, stern,
and, in a public sense, selfish.  It is well there are such
men as Mr. IIall to be found occasionally; men of large and
kind hearts, who can love their whole race, who can forgive
others for being richer, more prosperou more more powerful
than they are.  Such men may have less originality, less force
of' character than you, but they are better friends to mans
k'ind."
"And when is it to be 1" said Mr. Yorke, now rising.' When is what to be?"
"The wedding."
" Whose wedding?"
"Only that of Robert G rard M'foore, Esq., of Hollow's
Cottage, with Miss Keeldar, daughter and heiress of the late
Charles Cave Keeldar of Fieldhead Hall."
Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising color; but the
tight in her eye was not faltering: it shone steadily-yes;it
burned deeply.'4 That iA your revenge," she said  1lowlyv  tlheln  dded 




330                   SHIRLEY.
"Would it be a bad nmatien, uiworty of' the late Charles
Cave Keeldar's representative."
"My lass, Moore is a gentleman: his blood is pure and
ancient as mine or thine."
"And we two set store by ancient blood?  We have
family pride, though one of us at least is a 1Republican?"
Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute,
bat his eye confessed the impeachment.  Yes —he had family
pride-you saw it in his whole bearing.
"'Moore is a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head
with glad grace. She checked herself-words seemed crowding to her tongue, she would not give them utterance; but
her look spoke much at the moment: what —Yorke tried to
read, but could not-the language was there-visible, but
untranslatable-a poem-a fervid lyric in an unknown tongue.
It was not a plain story, however-no simple gush of feeling
H —no ordinary love confession-that was obvious; it was
something other, deeper, more intricate than he guessed at:
he felt his revenge had not struck home; he felt that Shirley
triumphed-she held him at fault, baffled, puzzled: she enjoyed
the moment, not he.
"And if Moore is a gentleman, you can be only a lady,
therefore-"
" Therefore there would be no inequality in our union?"
" None."
"Thank you for your approbation.  Will you give mo
away when I relinquish the name of IKeeldar fbr that of
Moore i"
Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled.
He could not divine what her look signified; whether she
spoke in earnest or in jest; there was purpose and feeling,
banter and scoffplaying, mingled, on her mobile lineaments.
"I don't understand thee," he said, turning away.
She laughed: " Take courage, sir; you are not singular in
your ignorance: but I suppose if Moore understands me that
will do-will it not?"
" Moore may settle his own matters henceforward, for mne;
I'll neither meddle nor make wvith them further."
A new thought crossed her: her countenance changed
magically: with a sudden darkening of the eye,and. austere
fixing of the features, she  dcmanrded —




AIRS. PRYORY0.                  331
~ Have you been asked to interfere?  Are yot questioning
rmc as another's proxy?"
"The Lord save us. Whoever weds thee must look about
him! Keep all your questions for Rlobert; I'll answer no
more on'erm. Good-day, lassie!"
The day being fine, or at least fair-for soft clouds curtained
the sun, and a dim but not chill or waterish haze slept blue
on the hills —Caroline, while Shirley was engaged with her
callers, had persuaded Mrs. Pryor to assume her bonnet and
summer shawl, and to take a walk with her up toward the
narrow end of the HE-ollow.
Here, the opposing sides of the glen approaching each other,
and becoming clothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed
a wooded ravine; at the bottom of' which ran the mill-stream,
in broken, unquiet course, struggling with many stones, chafing
against rugged banks, fretted with gnarled tree-roots, foaming,
gurgling, battling as it went. Here, when you had wandered
half a mile from the mill, you found a sense of deep solitude;
fbund it in the shade of unmolested trees; received it in the
singing of many birds, for which that shade made a home.
This was no trodden way; the freshness of the woodflowers
attested that foot of man seldom pressed them: the abounding
wild-roses looked as if they budded, bloomed, and faded under
the watch of solitude, as in a sultan's harem.  Here you saw
tihe sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognized in pearl-white
blossoms, spangling the grass, a humble type of' some starlit
spot in space.
Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk: she ever shunned highroads.
and sought byways and lonely lanes: one companion she preferred to total solitude, fbr in solitude she was nervous; a
vague fear of annoying encounters broke the enjoyment of
quite lonely rambles; but she feared nothing with Caroline:
when once she got away from human habitations, and entered
the still demesne of Nature, accompanied by this one youthful
fi-iend, a propitious change seemed to steal over her mind and
bean in her countenance.  5;When with Caroline-and CaroIine only-her heart, you would have said, shook off a burden,
her brow put aside a vail, her spirits, too, escaped from a re.
straint: with her, she was cheerful; with her, at times, she
was tenrder: to her she would impart her kliowledge, reveal
T)




332                   S H   R LEY.
gllnpses of her experience, give her opportunities for guessilia
what life she had lived, what cultivation her mind had re
ceived, of what caliber was her intelligence, how and where
her feelings were vulnerable.
To-day, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor
talked to her companion about the various birds singing
in the trees, discriminated their species, and said something
about their habits and peculiarities. English natural history
seemed fanmiliar to her. All the wild flowers round their path
were recognized by her: tiny plants springing near stones and
peeping out of chinks in old walls-plants such as Caroline
had scarcely noticed before-received a name and an intimation of their properties: it appeared that she had minutely
studied the botany of English fields and woods.  Having
reached the head of the ravine, they sat down together on a
ledge of gray and mossy rock jutting fiiom the base of a steep
green hill, which towered above them: she looked round her,
and spoke of the neighborhood as she had once before seen it
-ong ago. She alluded to its changes, and compared its aspect
with that of other parts of England; revealing in quiet, unconscious touches of description, a sense of the picturesque, an
appreciation of the beautiful or common-place, a power of comparing the wild with the cultured, the grand with the tame,
that gave to her discourse a graphic charm as pleasant as it'was unpretending.
The sort of reverent pleasure with which Caroline listened: —so sincere, so quiet, yet so evident, stirred the elder lady's
faculties to gentle animation.  Rarely, probably, had she,
with her chill, repellent outside-her diffident mien and incommunicative habits, known what it was to excite in one
whom she herself could love, feelings of earnest affection and
admiring esteem. Delightful, doubtless, was the consciousness
that a young girl toward whom it seemed-judging by the
moved expression of her eyes and features-her heart turned
with almost a fond impulse, looked up to her as an instructor,
and clung to her as a friend. With a somewhat more marked
accent of interest than she often permitted herself to use, she
said, as she bent toward her youthfuil companion, and put
aside from her forehead a pale brown curl which had strayeo
from the confining comb" 1 do hope this sweet air blowing frcm the hill will di'




ri R S. I it l'0R.             333
you good, my dear Caroline; i wish I could see something
more of color in these cheeks —but perhaps you were never
ilorid?"
"I had red cheeks once," returned Miss Helstone, smiling.
" I remember a year-two years ago, when I used to look in
the glass, I saw a different face there to what I see nowrounder and rosier. But when we are young," added the
girl of eighteen, "our minds are careless and our lives easy."
"IDo you"-continued Mrs. Pryor, mastering by an effbrt
that tyrant timidity which made it difficult for her, even
under present circumstances, to attempt the scrutiny of another's heart —" do you, at your age, fret yourself with cares
for the future? Believe me, you had better not: let the
-morrow take thoughts for the things of itself:"
"True, dear madam: it is not over the future I pine. The
evil of the day is sometimes oppressive-too oppressive, and I
longs to escape it."
"'That is-the evil of the day-that is-your uncle, per.
haps, is not —you find it difficult to understand-he does not
appreciate-"
Mrs. Pryor could not complete her broken sentences; she
could not manage to put the question whether Mr. Helstone
was too harsh with his niece, but Caroline comprehended.
"Oh, that is nothing," she replied; "my uncle and I get
on very well: we never quarrel-I dor't call him harsh-he
never scolds me.  Sometimes I wish somebody in the world
loved me; but I can not say that I particularly wish him to
have more affection for me than he has. As a child, I should
perhaps, -have felt the want of attention, only the servants
were very kind to me; but when people are long indifferent
to us, we grow indifferent to their indifference.  It is my
uncle's way not to care fobr women and girls-unless they be
ladies that he meets in company; he could not alter, and I
have no wish that he should alter, as far as I am concerned.
I believe it would merely annoy and frighten me were he to
be affectionate toward me now.  But you know, Mrs. Pryor,
it is scarcely living to measure time as I do at the rectory.'The hours pass, and - get them over somehow, but I do not
live.  I endure existence, but I rarely enjoy it.  Since Miss
Keeldar and you came, I have been-I was going to saylalp icer, but that would be untrue."  She paused




"3.t                   SHIRLEY.
" HIow, untrue?  You are fond of Miss Keeldar, are you
not, my dear?"
"Very fond of Shirley: I both like and admire her: but I
am painfully circumstanced: for a reason I can not explain,
I vant to go away from this pilce, alndi to forget it."
"You told me before you, wished to be a governess; but,
my dear, if you remember, I did not encourage the idea. I
have been a governess myself great part of my life.  In Miss
Keeldar's acquaintance, I esteem myself most fortunate: her
talents and her really sweet disposition have rendered my
office easy to me; but when I was young, before I married,
my trials were severe, poignant.  I should not like a -.  I
should not like you to endure similar ones. It was my lot to
enter a family of considerable pretensions to good birth and
mental superiority, and the members of which also believes
that'on them was perceptible' an unusual endowment of the'Christian graces:' that all their hearts were regenerate, and
their spirits in a peculiar state of discipline. I was early
given to understand, that as' I was not their equal,' so I
could not expect'to have their sympathy.'  It was in no sort
concealed from me that I was held'a burden and a restraint
in society.'  The gentlemen, I found, regarded me as'a
tabooed woman,' to whom'they were interdicted from grantung the usual privileges of the sex,' and yet who' annoyed
them  by frequently crossing their path.'  The ladies, too,
made it plain that they thought me'a bore.'  The servants,
it was signified,' detested me:' why, I could never clearly
comprehend.  My pupils, I was told,' however much they
might love me, and how deep soever the interest I might take
n them, could not be my fiiends.' It was intimated that I
must' live alone, and never transgress the invisible but igiid
line which established the difference between me and my
employers.' My life in this house was sedentary, solitary,
constrained, joyless, toilsome. The dreadful crushing of the
animal spirits, the ever-prevailing sense of friendlessness and
homelessness consequent on this state of things, began, ere
long, to produce mortal effects on my constitution-I sickened.
The lady of the house told me coolly I was the victim of'wounded vanity.'  She hinted, that if I did not make an
effort to quell my'ungodly discontent,' to cease'murmuringc
against God's alpointmernt,' and to cultivate the profound




MRS. PRYORi.                    335
hrumility befitting my station, my mind woulA very likely'go
to pieces' on the reck that wrecked most of my sisterhood —
morbid self-esteem; and that I should die an inmate cf a
lunatic asylum
"I said neo.hing to tMrs. I-lardman; it would have been
useless; but to her eldest daughter I one day dropped a few
observations, which were answered thus" Tlere were hardships, she allowed, in the position of a
governess:'doubtless they had their trials; but,' she averred,
winh a manner it makles me smile now to recall-' but it must
-. so.  She (Miss H.) had neither view, hope, nor wish to
see these things remedied; for, in the inherent constitution of
English habits, feelings, and prejudices, there was 11no possibility that they should be. Governesses,' she observed,'must
ever be kept in a sort of isolation; it is the only means of
maintaining that distance which the reserve of English manners and the decorum of English families exact.'
"I remember I sighed as Miss Hardman quitted my bedside; she caught the sound, and turning, said severelyI' T fear, Miss Gray, you have inherited in fullest measure'the worst sin of our fallen nature-the sinl of pride. You are
proud, and, therefore, you are ungrateful too.  Mamma pays
you a handsome salary; and, if you had average sense, you
would thankfully put up with much that is fatiguing to do
and irksome to bear, since it is so well made worth your
while.'
" Miss Hardman, my love, was a very strong-minded young
lady, of most distinguished talents: the aristocracy are decidedly a very superior class, you know-both physically and
morally, and mentally-as a high Tory I acknowledge that
-I could not describe the dignity of her voice and mien as
she addressed me thus: still, I fear, she was selfish,; my dear.
I would never wish to speak ill of my superiors in rank; but
I think she was a little selfish.
"I remember," continued Mrs. Pryor, after a pause, "another of Miss H.'s observations, which she would utter with
quite a grand air.'WE,' she would say —' WE need the
imprudencies, extrava(rances, mistakes, and crimes of a certain
number of fathers to sow the seed from which WE reap the
harvest of governesses.  The daughters of tradespeople, however well educated, must necessarily be underbred, and as




336                   SHIRLEY.
such, unfit to be inmates of OUTr dwellings, or guardians o.
ouR childrens' minds and persons.  WEV~r shall ever prelirr to
place those about our offspring, who have been born afind
bre(l with somewhat of the same refinement as OURSELVES.' 
"Miss H-ardman must have thought herself' something
better than her fellow-creatures, ma'am, since she held that
their calamities, and even crimes, were necessary to minister
to her convenience. You say she was religious: her religion
must have been that of the Pharisee, who thanked God that
he was not as other men are, nor even as that publican."
" lMy dear, we will not discuss the point: I should be the.ast person to wish to instill into your mind any feeling of
dissatisfaction with your lot in life, or any sentiment of envy
or insubordination toward your superiors. Implicit submission
to authorities, scrupulous deference to our betters (under which
term I, of course, include the higher classes of society) are, in
my opinion, indispensable to the wellbeing of every community. All I mean to say, my dear, is, that you had better not
attempt to be a governess, as the duties of the position would
ne too severe for your constitution. Not one word of disrespect
would I breathe toward either Mrs. or Miss Hardman; only,
recalling my own experience, I can not but feel that, were
you to fall under auspices such as theirs, you would contend
a while courageously with your doom; then you would pine
and grew too weak for your work; you would come home —
if you still had a home-broken down.  Those languishing
years would follow, of which none but the invalid and her
irtmediate friends feel the heart-sickness and know the burden:
consumption or decline would close the chapter. Such is the
history of many a life: I would not have it yours. My dear.
we will now walk about a little, if you please."
They both rose and slowly paced a green natural terrace
Dordering the chasm.
"My dear," ere long again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort oi
timlid, embarrassed abruptness marking her manner as she
spoke —" the young-especially those to whom  nature has
seen favorable —often-frequently-anticipate-look forward
1.o-to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes."
And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with prompt,tude, showing a great deal mere self-possession and courage:hap  ierself on the formidable topic now broached.




MRS. PRYOR.                       337
6They do, and naturally," she replied, whh a calm  cm
phasis that startled Mrs. Pryor.  "They look forward ta
marriage with some one they love as the brightest-the only
bright destiny that can await them.  Are they wrong?"
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her hands;
and again she paused. Caroline turned a searching, an eager
eye on the face of her friend: that face was much agitated
"My dear," she murmured, " life is an illusion."
"But not love!  Love is real-the most real, the most
lasting-the sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know."
" My dear, it is very bitter. It is said to be strong-strong
as death. Most of the cheats of existence are strong. As to
their sweetness-nothing is so transitory: its date is a moment-the twinkling of an eye: the sting remains forever.
It may perish with the dawn of eternity; but it tortures
through time into its deepest night."
" Yes, it tortures through time," agreed Caroline, " except
whet. it is mutual love."
"Mutual love! My dear, romances are pernicious.  You
do not read them, I hope?"
"Sometimes —whenever I can get them, indeed; but romance-writers might know nlothing of love, judging by the
way in which they treat of it."
"Nothing whatever, my dear!" assented Mrs. Pryor, eagerly, " nor of marriage; and the false pictures they give of those
subjects can not be too strongly condemned. They are not
like reality: they show you only the green tempting surface
~f the marsh, and give not one faithful or truthful hint of the
slough underneath."
"But it is not always slough," objected Caroline; "there
are happy marriages.  Where aflection is reciprocal and
sincere, and minds are harmonious, marriages mzuZst be
happy."
" It is never wholly happy. Two people can never literally
be as one.  There is, perhaps, a possibility of content under
peculiar circumstances, such as are seldom combined; but it
is as well not to run the risk: you may make fatal mistakes.
Be satisfied, my dear; let all the single be satisfied with their
freedom."
"You echo my uncle's words!" exclaimed Caroline, in a
tone of dismay; "you speak like Mrs. Yorke, in her most




838                   SIT R LEY
gloomy moments-like Miss Mann, when she is nmost sourlm
and hypochondriacally disposed. This is terrible!"
" N0o, it is only true.  Oh, child! you have only lived the
pleasant morning time of lifei: the hot, weary noon, the sad
evening, the sunless night are yet to come for you! Mr.
Helstone, you say, talks as I talk; and I wonder how Mrs.
Matthewson Helstone would have tallied, had she been living.
She died!-she died!"' And, alas! my own mother and father...." exclaimed
Caroline, struck by a somber recollection.; What of them?"
"Did I never tell you that they were separated?"
"I have heard it."
"They must then have been very miserable."
"You see all facts go to prove what I say."
"In this case there ought to be no such thing as rmai
riage l"
"There ought, my dear, were it only to prove that this lifi
is a mere state of probation, wherein neither rest nor recoinpInseC is to be vouchsafed."
" But your own marriage, Mrs. Pryor?"
" Mirs. Pryor shrunk and shuddered as if a rude finger haa
pressed a naked nerve.  Caroline felt she had touched what
would not bear the slightest contact.
"My marriage was unhappy," said the lady, summoning
courage at last; "but yet-" she hesitated.
"But yet," suggested Caroline, "not immitigably wretched?"
" Not in its results, at least.  No," she added, in a socfter
tonrle; "God mingles something of the balm of mercy even in
vials of the most corrosive woe. He can so turn events, that
from the very same blind, rash act whence sprang the curse
of half our life, may flow the blessing of the remainder. Then.
i am of a peculiar disposition, I own that: far from facile,
without address, in some points eccentric. I ought never to
have married: mine is not the nature easily to find a duplicate, or likely to assimilate with a contrast.  I was quite
awaroe  f my own ineligibility; and if I had not been so miserable as a governess, I never should have married: and
the —y entreted 
Caroline's  eyes asked her to procepd- they entreeted her to




MRS. PRYOR.                     339
break the thick cloud of despair, whic h her previous wortds
had seemed to spread over life.
"And then, my dear, Mr. -, that is, the gentleman i
married, was, perhaps, rather an exceptional than an average
character.  I hope, at least, the experience of few has been
such as mine was, or that few have felt their sufferings as I
felt mine.  They nearly shook my mind: relief was so hopeless-redress so unattainable. But, my dear, I do not wish
to dishearten-I only wish to warn you, and to prove that the
single should not be too anxious to change their state, as they
may change for the worse."
" Thank you, my dear madam.  I quite understand your
kind intentions; but there is no fear of my falling into the
error to which you allude. I, at least, have no thoughts of
marriage, and for that reason, I want to make myself a position by some other means."
" My dear, listen to me.  Oa what I am going to say I
have carefully deliberated; having, indeed, revolved the sub.
ject in my thoughts ever since you first mentioned your wish
to obtain a situation.  You know I at present reside with
Miss Keeldar in the capacity of companion: should she marry
(and that she will marry cre long, many circumstances induce
me to conclude), I shall cease to be necessary to her in that
capacity. I must tell you that I possess a small independency, arising partly from my own savings, and partly from a
legacy left me some years since; whenever I leave Fieldhead, I shall take a house of mny own: I could not endure
to live in solitude: I have no relations whom I care to invite to close intimacy; for, as you must have observed, and
as I have already avowed, my habits and tastes have their
peculiarities: to you, my dear, I need not say I am attached; with you I am  happier than I have ever been with
any living thing" (this was said with marked emphasis).
"Your society I should esteem  a very dear privilege-an
inestimable privilege, a comfort, a blessing.  You shall come
to me, then. Caroline, do you refuse ine. I hope you can
love me."
And with these two abrupt questions she stopped.
"Indeed, I do love you," was the reply.  "I should like to
live with you: but you are too kind."'All I have," went on Mrs. Pryor, " I would7 leave to you:




340                    SHIRLEY.
you should be provided for-but never again say I ant too kihnd.
You pieroe my heart, child!"
"But, my dear madam-this generosity-I have no claim-"
" Hush! you must not talk about it; there are some things
we can not bear to hear.  Oh! it is late to begin, but I may
yet live a few years: I can never wipe out the past, but per
haps a brief space in the future may yet be mine!"
Mrs. Pryor seemed deeply agitated: large tears trembled
in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. Caroline kissed hei,
in her gentle, caressing way, saying softly"I love you dearly.  Don't cry."
But the lady's whole frame seemed shaken: she sat down,
bent her head to her knee, and wept aloud.  Nothing could
console her till the inward storm had had its way.  At last
the agony subsided of itself.
"Poor thing!" she murmured, returning Caroline's kiss.
"poor lonely lamb! But come," she added, abruptly, " come
we must go home."
For a short distance Mrs. Pryor wallred very fast: by degrees, however, she calmed down to her wonted manner, fell
into her usual characteristic pace-a peculiar one, like all her
movements; and by the time they reached Fieldhead, she had
re-entered into herself; the outside was, as usual, still and shy.
CHIAPTER XXILI
TWO LIVES.
ONLY half of Moore's activity and resolution had been seen
in his defense of the mill: he showed the other half (and a
terrible half' it was) in the indefatigable, the relentless assiduity with which he pursued the leaders of the riot.  Tihe
mob, the mere followers, he let alone: perhaps an innate sense
of' justice told him that men misled by false counsels, and
goaded by privations, are not fit objects of vengeance, and trhat
he who would visit an  y ven violent act on the bent head of
uattIring, is a tyrant, nol a judge. At all events, though Ih




TWO LIVES.                     341
knew Inanly of the number, having recogl ized them during the
latter part of the attack, when day began to dawn, he let them
daily pa*ss him on street and road withoutl notice or threat.
The leaders he did not know. They were strangers —
emissaries from the large towkrs. Most of these were not
members of the operative class: they were chiefly " downdraughts," bankrupts, men always in debt, and often in drink
men who had nothing to lose, and much-in the way of char
acter, cash, and cleanliness-to gain.  These persons Moorn
hunted like any sleuth-hound; and well he liked the occupa
t.ion: its excitement was of a kind pleasant to his nature: he
liked it better than making cloth.
His horse must have hated these times, for it was ridden
noth hard and often: he almost lived on the road, and the
fresh air was as welcome to his lungs as the policeman's quest
to his mood: he preferred it to the steam of dye-houses. The
magistrates of the district must have dreaded him: they were
slow, timid men; he liked both to frighten and to rouse them.
IHe liked to force them to betray a certain fear, which made
them alike falter in resolve and recoil in action-the fear,
simply, of assassination.  This, indeed, was the dread which
had hitherto hampered every manufacturer, and almost every
public man in the district. Helstone alone had ever repelled
it.  The old Cossack knew well he might be shot: he knew
there was risk; but such death had for his nerves no terrors:
it woukld have been his chosen, might he have had a choice.
Moore likewise knew his danger: the result was an: uaquenchable scorn of the quarter whence such danger was to
be apprehended. The consciousness that he hunted assassins
was the spur in his high-mettled temper's flank. As for fiar,
he was too proud-too hard-nurtured-(if you will)-too
phlegmatic a man to fear. Many a time he rode belated
over moors, moonlit or moonless, as the case might be, with
feelingrs far more elate, faculties far better refreshed, than
when safety and stagnation environel him in the countinghouse. Four was the number of the leaders to be accounted
fobr: two, in the course of a fortnight, were brought to bay
near Stilbro'; the remaining two it was necessary to seek
further off: their haunts were supposed to lie near Birming.
ham.
Meantime, the clothier did not neglect his battered mill




342                   SHIRLEY.
its reparation was esteemed a light task; carpenters' and
glaziers' work alone being needed.  The rioters not having
succeeded in affecting an entrance, his grim, metal darlingsthe machines-had escaped damage.
Whether, during this busy life —whether, while stern
iustice and exacting business claimed his energies and ha.
rassed his thoughts-he now and then gave one moment,
dedicated oine effort, to keep alive gentler fires than those
which smolder in the fane of Nemesis, it is not easy to
discover. He seldom went near Fieldhead; if he did, his
visits were brief: if he called at the rectory, it was only to
hold conferences with the rector in his study. He maintained
his rigid course very steadily. Meantime, the history of the
year continued troubled: there was no lull in the tempest of
war; her long hurricane still swept the Continent. There
was not the faintest sign of serene weather; no opening amid
"the clouds of battle-dust and smoke;" no fall of pure dews
genial to the olive; no cessation of the red rain which nourishes the baleful and glorious laurel.  Meantime, Ruin had
her sappers and miners at work under Moore's feet, and
whether he rode or walkedl —whether he only crossed his
countingr-house hearth, or galloped over sullen Rushedge-he
was aware of a hollow echo, and felt the ground shake to his
tread.
Wrhile the summer thus passed with Moore, how did it
lapse with Shirley and Caroline?  Let us first visit the
heiress.  How does she look?  Like a love-lorn maiden, pale
and pining for a neglectful swain? Does she sit the day long
bent over some sedentary task! Has she forever a book in
her hand, or sewing on her knee, and eyes only for that, and
words for nothing, and thoughts unspoken?
By no means.  Shirley is all right.  If her wistful cast
of physiognomy is not gone, no more is her careless smile.
She keeps her dark old manor-house light and bright with
her cheery presence: the gallery, and the low-ceiled chambers
that open into it, have learned lively echoes from her voice:
the dim entrance-hall, with its one window, has grown pleasantly accustomed to the frequent rustle of a silk dress, as its
wearer sweeps across from room to room, now carrying flowers
to the barbarous peach-bloom salon, now entering the diningoorn to open its casements, and let in the sweet scent of mig




TWO LIVES.                      343:,onette alnd sweet-briar, anon bringing plants from the stair
ease window to place in the sun at the open porch-door.
She takes her sewing occasionally; but, by some fatality,
she is doomed never to sit steadily at it for above five minutes
at a time: her thimble is scarcely fitted on, her needle scarce
threaded, when a sudden thought calls her up-stairs: perhaps
she goes to seek some just-then-remembered old ivory-backed
needle-book, or older china-topped work-box, quite unneeded,
but which seems at the moment indispensable; perhaps to
arrange her hair, or a drawer which she recollects to have
seen that morning in a state of curious confusion; perhaps
only to take a peep frmrn a particular window at a particular
view, whence Briarfield church and rectory are visible, pleaslantly bowered in trees. She has scarcely returned, and again
taken up the slip of cambric, or square of half-wrought canvas, when Tartar's bold scrape and strangled whistle are
heard at the porch-door, and she must run to open it for himi
it is a hot day; he comes in panting; she must convoy him
to the kitchen, and see with her own. eyes that his water-bowl
is replenished.  Through the open kitchen-door the court is
visible, all sunny and gay, and peopled with turkeys and their
poults, pea-hens and their chicks, pearl-flecked Guinea fowls,
and a bright variety of pure white, and purple-necked, and
blue and cinnamon-plumed pigeons. Irresistible spectacle to
Shirley! She runs to the pantry for a roll, and she stands on
the door-step scattering crumbs; around her throng her eager,
plump, happy, feathered vassals. John is about the stables,
and John mnust be talked to, and her mare looked at.  She
is still petting and patting it, when the cows come in to be
milked: this is important; Shirley must stay and take a
review of them all.  There are perhaps some little calves,
some new-yeaned lambs-it may be twins, whose mothers
have rejected them: Miss Keeldar must be introduced to
them by John —must permit herself the treat of feeding them
with her own hand, under the direction of her careful foreman.
Meantime, John moots doubtful questions about the farming
o' certain " croftls," and "ings," and "holms,' and his mistress
Is Ilecessitated to fetch her garden-hat-a gipsy-straw —and
rvecoirpany him, over stile and along hedgerow, to hear the
conclusion of the -whole agricultural matter on the spot, and
wit:h the said " crofts," " ings." and " holms" under lher five




S HI ILEY.
Bright afternoon thus wears into soft evening, and she comes
h-ome to a late tea, and after tea she never sews.
After tea Shirley reads, and she is just about as tenacious
of her book as she is lax of her needle.  Her study is the rug,
her seat a foot-stool, or perhaps only the carpet at Mrs. Pryor's
feet-there she always learned her lesson when a child, and
old habits have a strong power over her. The tawny and
lion-like bulk of Tartar is ever stretched beside her; his negro
muzzle laid on his fore-paws, straight, strong, and shapely as
the limbs of an Alpine wolf. One hand of the mistress gert
erally reposes on the loving serf's rude head, because if she
takes it away he groans and is discontented.  Shirley's mind
is given to her book; she lifts not her eyes; she neither stirs
nor speaks: unless it be to return a brief, respectful answer to
Mrs. Pryor, who addresses deprecatory phrases to her now
and then.
"' My dear, you had better not have that great dog so near
you: he is crushing the border of your dress."
" Oh, it is only muslin; I can put a clean one on to-morrow.))' "My dear, I wish you could acquire the habit of sitting to
a table when you read."
"I will try ma'am, some time; but it is so comfortable to
do as one has always been accustomed to do."
"lM y dear, let me beg of' you to put that book down: yen
are trying your eyes by the doubtful firelight."
"No, ma'arn, not at all: my eyes are never tired."
At last, however, a pale light falls on the page from the
window: she looks, the moon is up; she closes the volume,
rises, and walks through the room.  Her book has, perhaps,
been a good one: it has refreshed, refilled, rewarmed her
heart; it has set her brain astir, furnished her mind with
pictures. The still parlor, the clean hearth, the window
opening on the twilight sly, and showing its " sweet regent,"
new throned and glorious, suffice to make earth an Eden, life
a poem for Shirley.' A still, deep, inborn delight glows in
her young veins; unmingled-untroubled; not to be reached
or ravished by human agency, because by no human agency
bestowed; the pure gift of God to His creature. the free donwet
of Nature to her child. This joy gives her experience of a
gcnii-life.  Buoyant, by green steps, by glad hills all verdl re




TWO  L1VES.                      345
and light, she reaches a station scarcely lower than thai
whence angels looked down on the dreamer of Bethel, and
her eye seeks, and her soul possesses, the vision of life as she
wishes it.  No -not as she wishes it: she has not time to
wish: the swift glory spreads out, sweeping and kindling, and
multiplies its splendors faster than Thought can effect its combinations, faster than Aspiration can utter her longings. Shir
ley says nothing while the trance is upon her-she is quite
mute; but if Mrs. Pryor speaks to her now, she goes out quietly
and continues her walk up-stairs in the dim gallery.
If Shirley were not an indolent, a reckless, an ignorant
being, she would take a pen at such moments; or at least
while the recollection of such moments was yet fresh on her
spirit; she would seize,'she would fix the apparition, tell the
vision revealed.  Had she a little more of the organ of Acquisitiveness in her head-a little more of the love of property
in her nature, she would take a good-sized sheet of paper and
write plainly out, in her own queer but clear and legible hand,
the story that had been narrated, the song that had been sung
to her, and thus possess what she was enabled to create.'But indolent she is, reckless she is, and most ignorant, for she
does not know her dreams are rare-her feelings peculiar: she
does not know, has never known, and will die without knowing, the full value of that spring whose bright, fresh bubbling
in her heart keeps it green.
Shirley takes life easily; is not that fact written in her eye?
In her good-tempered moments, is it not as full of lazy softness as in her brief fits of anger it is fulgent with quick-flashiag fire? IHer nature is in her eye: so long as she is calm,
~lcdolence, indulgence, humor, and tenderness possess that
large gray sphere: incense her-a red ray pierces the dewit quickens instantly to flame.
Ere the month of July was passed, Miss Keeldar would
probably have started with Caroline on that northern tour
they had planned; but just at that epoch an invasion befell
Fieldhead: a genteel foraging party besieged Shirley in her
castle, and compelled her to surrender at discretion. An uncle.
an aunt, and two cousins from the south, a Mr., Mrs., and
two Misses Sympson of Sympson Grove, -shire came down
upon her in state.  The laws of hospitality obliged her to
give, in, which she did with a facility which somewhat sure




34G                   SHIRLEY. 
prised Caroline, who knew her to be prompt in action ant
fertile in expedient, where a victory was to be gained for hex
will. Miss Helstone even asked her how it was she submitted
so readily?-she answered, old feelings had their power'
she had passed two years of her early youth at Sympson
Grove.
" How did she like her relatives?"
She had nothing in common with them, she replied: little
HIarry Sympson, indeed, the sole son of the family, was very
unlike his sisters, and of him she had formerly been fond; l;Ut
he was not coming to Yorkshire: at least not yet.
The next Sunday the Fieldhead pew in Briarfield church
appeared peopled with a prim, trim, fidgety, elderly gentlenlan, who shifted his spectacles and changed his position
every three minutes; a patient, placid-looking, elderly lady,
in brown satin, and two pattern young ladies, in pattern
attire, with pattern deportment. Shirley had the air of a
black swan, or a white crow in the midst of this party; and
very forlorn was her aspect.  Having brought her into respectable society, we will leave her there a while, and look
after Miss IHelstone.
Separated from Miss Keeldar for the present, as she could
not seek her in the midst of her fine relatives; scared away
fiorn Fieldhead'by the visiting commotion which the new
arrivals occasioned in the neighborhood, Caroline was limited
once more to the gray rectory; the solitary morning walk in
remote bypaths; the long, lonely afternoon sitting in a quiet
parlor which the sun forsook at noon, or in the garden alcove
where it shone bright, yet sad, on the ripening red currants
trained over the trellis, and on the fair monthly roses entwined
between, and through them fell checkered on Caroline, sitting
in her white summer-dress, still as a garden statue.  There
she read old books, taken from her uncle's library: the Greek
and Latin were of no use to her; and its collection of light
literature was chiefly contained on a shelf which had belonged
to her aunt Mary; some venerable Lady's Magazines, that
har4 once performed a sea-voyage with their owner, and undergone a storm, and whose pages were stained with salt water;
sone mad Methodist Magazines, full of miracles and appari.
tious, of preternatural warnings, ominous dreams, and frenzied
tiairtivism; the equally mad Letters of Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe.,




TWO LIVES.                      347
trom the Dead to the Living; a few old English classics —
fiom these faded flowers Caroline had in her childhood extracted the honey-they were tasteless to her now.  By the
way of change, and also of doing good, she would sew; make
garments for the poor, according to good Miss Ainley's direction.  Sometimes, as she felt and saw her tears fall slowly
on her work, she would wonder how the excellent woman
who had cut it out and arranged it for her, managed to be so
equably serene in her solitude.
"I never find Miss Ainley oppressed with despondency, or
lost in grief," she thought; "yet her cottage is a still, dim,
little place, and she is without a bright hope or near friend in
the world.  I remember, though, she told me once, she had
tutored her thoughts to tend upward to Heaven.  She allowed there was, and ever had been, little enjoyment in this world
for her; and she looks, I suppose, to the bliss of the world to
come.  So do nuns-with their close cell,: their iron lamp
their robe strait as a shroud, their bed narrow as a coffin
She says, often, she has no fear of death —no dread of the
grave:- no more, doubtless, had St. Simeon Stylites, lifted upr
terrible on his wild column in the wilderness: no more has
the Hindoo votary stretched on his couch of iron spikes
Both these having violated nature, their natural likings and
antipathies are reversed: they grow altogether morbid.  I do
fear death as yet, but I believe it is because I am young:
poor Miss Ainley would cling closer to life, if life had morc
charms for her. God surely did not create us, and cause us
to live, with the sole end of wishing always to die. I believe,
in my heart, we were intended to prize life and enjoy it, so
long as we retain it. Existence never was originally meant
to be that useless, blank, pale, slow-trailing thing it often
becomes to many, and is becoming to me, among the rest.
" Nobody," she went on-" nobody in particular is to
blame, that I can see, for the state in which things are; and
I can not tell, however much I puzzle over it, how they are
to be altered for the better; but I feel there is something
wrong somewhere. I believe single women should have more
to do-better chances of interesting and profitable occupation
than they possess now. And when I speak thus, I have no
impression that I displease God by my words; that I am
eitheri ipious or impatient, irreligious or sacrilegious  My
either impious ol                        13 VCII-LVLU V- I~II~V




348                   SHIRLEBY.
consolation is, indeed, that God hears many a groan, anai
compassionates much grief which man stops his ears against,
or frowns on with impotent contempt.  I say mimplotent, for I
observe that to such grievances as society can not readily cure,
it usually forbids utterance, on pain of its scorn; this scorn
being only a sort of tinseled cloak to its deformed weakness.
People hate to be reminded of' ills they are unable or unwilling to remedy: such reminder, in forcing on them a sense of
their own incapacity, or a more painful sense of an obligation
to make some unpleasant effort, troubles their ease and shakes
their self-complacency. Old maids, liee the houseless and
unemployed poor, should not ask for as place and an occupation in the world: the demand disturbs the happy and rich:
it disturbs parents.  Look at the numerous families of girls in
this neighborhood: the Armitages, the Birtwhistles, the
Sykes.  The brothers of these girls are every one in business
or in professions; they have something to do: their sisters
have no earthly employment, but household work and sewing; no earthly pleasure, but an unprofitable visiting; and
no hope, in all their life to come, of any thing better. This
stagnant state of things makes them decline in health: they
are never well; and their minds and views shrink to wonderous narrowness.  The great wish-the sole aim of every one
of them is to be married, but the majority will never marry:
they. will die as they now live.  They scheme, they plot, they
dress to ensnare husbands.  The gentlemen turn them into
ridicule: they don't want them; they hold them very cheap:
they say-I have heard them  say it with sneering laughs
many a time-the matrimonial market is overstocked.  Fathers say so likewise, and.are angry with their daughters
when they observe their maneuvres: they order them to stay
at home.  WThat do they expect them to do at home?  If
vou ask-they would answer, sew and cook. They expect
them to do this, and this only, contentedly, regularly, uncomplainingly, all their lives long, as if they had no germs of
ikeulties for any thing else: a doctrine as reasonable to hold,
as it would be that the fathers have no faculties but for eating what their daughters cook, or for wearing what they sew.
Could men live so themselves. Would they not be ver3
weary?  And when there came no relief to their weariness,
but only reproaches at its slightest manifestation, would.not




TWO LIVES.                      349
their weariness ferment in time to frenzy?  Lucretia, spillning at midnight in the midst of her maidens, and Solomoni's
virtuous woman, are often quoted as patterns of what' the
sex' (as they say) ought to be.  I don't know: Lucretia, 1
dare say, was a most worthy sort of person, much like my
cousin Hortense Moore; but she kept her servants up very
late.  I should not have liked to be among the number of the
maidens. Hortense would just work me and Sarah in that
fashion, if she could, and neither of us would bear it.  The'virtuous woman,' again, had her household up in the very
middle of the night; she'got breakfast over' (as Mrs. Sykes
says) before one o'clock, A..; but she had something more
to do than spin and give out portions: she was a manufacturer-she made fine linen and sold it: she was an agriculturist-she bought estates and planted vineyards.  Th at
woman was a manager: she was what the matrons hereabouts call'a clever woman.' On the whole, I like her a
good deal better than Lucretia; but I don't believe either
Mr. Armitage or Mr. Sykes could have got the advantage of
her in a bargain: yet I like her.'Strength and honor were
her clothing: the heart of her husband safely trusted in her.
She opened her mouth with wisdom: in her tongue was the
law of kindness: her children rose up and aalled her blessed:
her husband also praised her.' King of Israel! your model
of a woman, is a worthy model! But are we, in these days,
brought up to be like her?  Men of Yorkshire! do your
daughters reach this royal standard, Can they reach it?
Can you help them to reach it? Can you give them a field
in which their faculties may be exercised and grow?  Men
of' England! look at your poor girls, many of them  fadling
around you, dropping off in consumption or decline: or, what
Is worse, degenerating into sour old maids, envious, backbitinr,
wretched, because life is a desert to them; or, what is worst
of all, reduced to strive, by scarce modest coquetry and debasing artifice, to gain that position and consideration by marriage,
which to celibacy is denied.  Fathers! can not you alter these
things?  Perhaps not all at once; but consider the mattei
w-el1 when it is brought befbre you, receive it as a theme
worthy of thought: do not dismiss it with an idle jest or an
unmiaanly insult.  You would wish to be proud of youi
daurthters, and not to blush for them -then seek for them ain




350                   SHIRI EY.
interest anl an occupation which shall raise them  above
he flirthe  flte manaeuvrer, the mischief-making tale-bearer
Keep your girls' minds narrow and fettered-they will still be
a plague and a care, sometimes a disgrace to you: cultivate
them —give thenm scope and work-they will be your gayest
oampanions in health; yollr tenderest nurses in sickness; your
I rest faithful prop in age."'
CHAPTER XXIII.
AN EVENING OUT.
ONE fine summer day that Caroline had spent entirely aloner
(her uncle being at WVhinbury), and whose long, bright, noiseless, breezeless, cloudless hours (how many they seemed since
sunrise!) had been to her as desolate as if they had gone over
her head in the shadowless and trackless wastes of Zahara,
instead of in the blooming garden of an English home, she
was sitting in the alcove-her task of work on her knee, her
fingers assiduously plying the needle, her eyes following and
regulating their movements, her brain working restlesslywhen Fanny came to the door, looked round over the lawn
and borders, and not seeing her who-m she souglht, called out,
"Miss Caroline ["
A low voice answered, "Fanny!"  It issued from  the
alcove, and thither Fanny hastened-a note in her hand,
which she delivered to fingers that hardly seemed to have
nerve to hold it.  Miss Helstone did not ask whence it came,
and she did not look at it: she let it drop among the foblds of
her work.
"Joe Scott's son, Harry, brought it," said Fanny.
The girl was no enchantress, and knew no magic-spell, yet
what she said took almost magical effect on her young mis.
tress: she lifted her head with the quick motion of revived
sensation; she shot. —not a languid, but a life-like, questioning
glance at Fanny.
"H larry Scott!  WVho sent him I"




AN EVENING OUT.                    351
i e came from thle Hollow."
The dropped note was snatched up eagerly — the seal was
broken: it was read in two seconds. An afleclionate billet
fiom IIortense, informing her young cousin that she was returned from WTormwood Wells; that she was alone to day,
as Robert was gone to Whinbury market; that nothing would
give her greater pleasure than to have Caroline's company to
tea; and-the good lady added —she was sure such a chango
would be most acceptable and beneficial to Caroline, who must
be sadly at a loss both for safe guidance and improving society
since the misunderstanding between Robert and Mr. Helstone
had occasioned a separation from her " meilleure amie, Hortense G6rard Moore."  In a postscript, she was urged to put
on her bonnet and run down directly.
Caroline did not need the injunction: glad was she to lay
by the brown Holland child's-slip she was trimming with braid
for the Jew's-basket, to hasten up-stairs, cover her curls withl
her straw bonnet, and throw round her shoulders the black
silk scarf; whose simple drapery suited as well her shape as
its dark hue set off the purity of her dress and the fairness of
her face; glad was she to escape fib a few hours the solitude,
the sadness, the nightmare of her life; glad to run down the
green lane sloping to the Hollow, to scent the fragrance of
hedge-flowers sweeter than the perfume of moss-rose or lily.
True, she knew Robert was not at the cottage; but it was
delight to go where he had lately been: so long, so totally
separated firom him, merely to see his home, to enter the room
where he had that morning sat, felt like a reunion.  As such
it revived her; and then Illusion was again following her in
Peri-mask: the soft agitation of wings caressed her cheek, and
the air, breathing from the blue summer sky, bore a voice
which whispered, " Robert may come home while you are in
his house; and then, at least, you may look in his face-at
least you may give him your hand: perhaps, for a minute,
you may sit beside him."
" Silence!" was her austere response: but she loved the
comforter and the consolation.
Miss Moore probably caught from the window the gleam
*and flutter of Caroline's white attire through the branchy
garden-shrubs, for sh3 advanced from the cottage porch to
m.cet hier  Straiglht, runbendling, phlelgmatic as usual, shwe




352                   81H IRLEY
came on: no haste or Ecstasy was ever permitted to disorder
the dignity of her mo ements; but she smiled, well pleasedl
to mark the delight of her pupil, ta feel her kiss, and the gentle,
genial strain of her embrace.  She led her tenderly in-halfdeceived and wholly flattered.  Half-deceived! had it not
been so, she would in all probability have put her to the
wicket, and shut her out.  Had she known clearly to whose
account the chief share of this childlike joy was to be placed,
Hortense would most likely have felt both shocked and incensed.  Sisters do not like young ladies to fall in love with
their brothers: it seems, if not presumptuous, silly, weak, a
delusion, an absurd mistake.  They do not love these gentlemen-whatever sisterly affection they may cherish toward
them-and that others should, repels them with a sense of
crude romance.  The first movement, in short, excited by such
discovery (as with many parents on finding their children to
be in love), is one of mixed impatience and contempt. Reason
-if they be rational people-corrects the false feeling in time;
but if they be irrational, it is never corrected, and the daughter
or sister-in-law is disliked to the end.
" You would expect to find me alone, from what I said in
my note," observed Miss Moore, as she conducted Caroline
toward the parlor; " but it was written this morning; since
dinner, company has come in."
And opening the door, she made visible an ample spread
of crimson skirts overflowinfg the elbow-chair at the fire-side,
and above them, presiding with dignity, a cap more awful
than a crown. That cap had never come to the cottage under
a bonnet: no, it had been brought in a vast bag, or, rather,
a middle-sized balloon of black silk, held wide with whalebone. The screed, or frill of the cap, stood a quarter of a yard
broad round the face of the wearer: the ribbon, flourishing in
puffs and bows about the head, was of the sort called loveribbon: there was a good deal of it-I may say, a very great
deal.  Mrs. Yorke wore the cap-it became her: she wore
the gown also-it suited her no less.
That great lady was comne in a friendly way to take tea
with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and as rare a favor
as if the queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck with
one of her subjects: a higher mark of distinction she could
Inot sllhw-she who, in general, scorned visiting an! tea, drinkl




AN EVENI-NG OUT.                   353
ang, and held cheap, and stigmatized as "gossips," every maid
and matron of the vicinage.
There was no mistake, however; Miss Moore was a favorite
with her: she had evinced the fact more than once; evinced
it by stopping to speak to her in the church-yard on Sundays;
by inviting her, almost hospitably, to come to Briarmains;
evinced it to-day by the grand condescension of a personal
visit. Her reasons for the preference, as assigned by herself;
were, that Miss Moore was a woman of steady deportment,
without the least levity of conversation or carriage; also, that,
being a foreigner, she must feel the want of a ffiend to countenance her.  She might have added that her plain aspect,
hlornely, precise dress, and phlegmatic, unattractive manner
were, to her, so many additional recommendations. It is certain, at least, that ladies remarkable for the opposite qualities
of' beauty, lively bearing, and elegant taste in attire, were not
often favored with her approbation. Whatever gentlemen are
apt to admire in women, Mrs. Yorke condemned; and what
they overlook or despise, she patronized.
Caroline advanced to the mighty matron with some sense
of diffidence: she knew little of' Mrs. Yorke; and, as a parson's
niece, was doubtful what sort of reception she might get.
She got a very cool one, and was glad to hide her discomfiture
by turning away to take off her bonnet. INor, upon sitting
down, was she displeased to be immediately accosted by a
little personage in a blue frock and sash, who started up like
some fairy from the side of the great dame's chair, where she
had been sitting on a foot-stool, screened from view by the
folds of the wide red gown, and running to Miss Helstone,
unceremoniously threw her arms round her neck, and demanded a kiss.
" My mother is not civil to you," said the petitioner, as she
received and repaid a smiling salute; "and Rose, there, takes
no notice of you; it is their way. If, instead of you, a white
angel, with a crown of stars, had come into the room, mother
would nod stiffly, and Rose never lift her head at all; but I
will be your friend; I have always liked you."
" Jessie, curb that tongue of yours, and repress your forward.
ness," said Mrs. Yorke.
"But, mother, you are so frozen!" expostulated Jessie.
" Miss Helstone has never done you any harm: why car'l




#,,,                  8 11  SHIRLEY.
you be kind to her?  You sit so stiff, and look so ccld, 6end
)pealk so dry; what for?  That's just the fashion in wilnch
you treat Miss Shirley Keeldar, and every other young lady
who comes to our house.  And rose, there, is such an aut —
anut — I have forgotten the word, but it means a machine
in the shape of a human being.  However, between you, you'will drive every soul away from Briarmainss —-Martin often
says so!"
" I am an automaton?  Good! Let me alone, then," said
Rlose, spealingt fiom a corner where she was sitting on the
carpet, at the foot of a bookcase, with a volume spread open
on her knee.  " Miss Helstone-how do you do 2" she added,
directing a brief glance to the person addressed, and then again
casting down her gray, remarkable eyes on the book, and returning to the study of its pages.
Caroline stole a quiet gaze toward her, dwelling- on hei
young, absorbed countenance, and observing a certain unconscious movement of the mouth as she read-a movement full
of character.  Caroline had tact, and she had fine instinct;
she felt that Rose Yorke was a peculiar child-one of the
unique: she knew how to treat her.  Approaching quietly
she knelt on the carpet at her side, and looked over her little
shoulder at her book.  It was a romance of M1rs. Radeliffe's
-" The Italian."
Caroline read on with her, making no remark: presently
LRose showed her th? attention of asking, ere she turned a leaf —
"Are you ready l"
Caroline only nodded.
" Do you like it?" inquired Rose, ere long.
"Long since, when I read it as a child, I was wonderfully
taken with it."
" Why?"
" It seemed to open with such promise-such foreboding
of a most strange tale to be unfolded."
"And in reading it, you feel as if you were far away from
England-really in Italy-under another sort of sky-that
blue sky of the south which travelers describe."' "You are sensible of that, Rose."
"It makes me long to travel, Miss Helstone."
"When you are a woman, perhaps, you ilay be able to
giatify your wi:sh"




AN EVENN 3 OUT.                    355
"I mean to make a way to do so, if one is not made foi
nte. I can not always live in  3riarfield.  The whole world
is not very large compared with creation: I nmust see the
outside of our own round planet, at least."
"  ow much of its outside?"
"First, this hemisphere where we live; then the other.
I am resolved that my life shall be a life; not a black trance
like the toad's, buried in marble; nor a long, slow death, like
yours in Briarfield rectory."
" Like mine! What can you mean, child 1"
"Might you not as well be tediously dying, as forever
shut up in that glebe-house-a place that, when I pass it,
always reminds me of a windowed grave? I never see any
movement about the door: I never hear a sound fiom the
wall: I believe smoke never issues from the chimneys. What
do you do there?"
"I sew, I read, I learn lessons."
"Are you happy?"
"Should I be happier wandering alone in strange countries.
as you wish to do?"
" Much happier, even if you did nothing but wander. Remember, however, that I shall have an object in view: but if
you only went on and on, like some enchanted lady in a fairy
tale, you n light be happier than now. In a day's wandering, you
would pas.; many a hill, wood, and watercourse, each perpetually altering in aspect as the sun shone out or was overcast;
as the weather was wet or fair, dark or bright..Nothing
changes in Briarfield rectory; the plaster of the parlor-ceilings,
the paper on the walls, the curtains, carpets, chairs are still
the same."
"Is change necessary to happiness?"
" Yes."
"Is it synonymous with it?"
" I don't know; but I feel monotony and death to be almost
tle same."
Ihere Jessie spoke.
" Isn't she mad?" she asked.
" But, Rose," pursued Caroline, " I feel a wanderel's life,
for me, at least, would end like that tale you are reading —in
disappointment, vanity, and vexation of spirit."
" Loes'the Italian' so end?"




356                   SHI RLEY.
" I thought so when I read it."
"Better to try all things ani find all empty, than to try
nothing and leave your life a blank. To do this is to commit
the sin of him who buried his talent in a napkin —despicable
sluggard "
"Rose," observed ZMrs. Yorke,' solid satisfaction is only to
be realized by doing one's duty."
" Right, mother! And if my master has given me ten
talents, my duty is to trade with them, and make them ten
talents more. Not in the dust of household drawers shall the
coin be interred. I will not deposit it in a broken-spouted
tea-pot, and shut it up in a china-closet among tea-things. I
will not commit it to your work-table to be smothered in piles
of' woolen hose. I will not prison it in the linen-press to find
shrouds among the sheets: and least of' all, mother-(she got
up fiorn the floor)-least of all, will I hide it in a tureen of'
cold potatoes, to be ranged with bread, butter, pastry, and ham
on the shelves of the larder."
She stopped-then went on:"Mother, the Lord who gave each of us our talents will
come home some day, and will demand from all an account.
The tea-pot, the old stocking-foot, the linen rag, the willowpattern tureen will yield up their barren deposit in many a
house: suffer your daughters, at least, to put their money to
the exchangers, that they may be enabled, at the MIaster's
c.oming, to pay him his own with usury."
"Rose, did you bring your sampler with you, as I told
you?"
" Yes, mother."
" Sit down, and do a line of marking."
Rose sat down promptly, and wrought according to orders.
After a busy pause of ten minutes, her mother asked —
" Do you think yourself oppressed now?  A victim 1"
" No, mother."
"Yet, as far as I understood your tirade, it was a pIotist
against all womanly and domestic employment."
"You misunderstood it, mother.  I should be sorry not to
learn to sew; you do rifglt to teach me, and to make nme
work."
"Even to the mending of your bri-others' stockings, and the
making of sheets."




AN EVENING  OUT.                     357
"Yes."
"Where is the use of ranting and spouting about it, then?"
"Am I to do nothing but that?  I will do that, and then
I will do more.  Now, mother, I have said my say. I am
twelve years old at present, and not till I am sixteen will I
speak again about talents: for four years, I bind myself an industrious apprentice to all you can teach me."
"You see what my daughters are, Miss Helstone," observed
Mrs. Yorke: "how precociously wise in their own conceits!'I would rather this —I prefer that;' such is Jessie's cuckooso)ng; while Rose utters the bolder cry,' I will, and I will
Tlot!"
"I render a reason, mother: besides, if my cry is bold, it
is only heard once in a twelvemonth. About each birthday,
the spirit moves me to deliver one oracle respecting my own
instruction and management: I utter it and leave it; it is
fobr you, mother, to listen or not."
" I would advise all young ladies," pursued Mrs. Yorke,
"to study the characters of such children as they chance to
meet with before they marry, and have any of their own; to
consider well how they would like the responsibility of guiding
the careless, the labor of persuading the stubborn, the constant
burden and task of training the best."
"But with love it need not be so very difficult," interposed
Caroline. " Mothers love their children most dearly-almost
better than they love themselves."
" Fine talk! Very sentimental! There is the rough, practecal part of life yet to come fobr you, young Miss!"
" But, Mrs. Yorke, if I take a little baby into my armsany poor woman's infant, for instance-I feel that I love that
helpless thing quite peculiarly, though I am not its mother. I
could do almost any thing for it willingly, if it were delivered
over entirely to my care-if it were quite dependent on me."
" You feel!  Yes! yes! I dare say, now: you are led a
great deal by your feelings, and you think yourself a very
sensitive, refined personage, no doubt.  Are you aware that,
with all these romantic ideas, you have managed to train
your features into an habitual lackadaisical expression, better
suited to a novel heroine than to a woman who is to make
her way in the real world, by dint of common sense 1"
" No; I am not at all aware of that, M1]rs. Yorke"




358                   SHIRLEY.
"a Look 1. the glass just behind you. Con'pare the face von
see there with that of any early-rising, hard-workinJg Irilkmaid."
"My face is a pale one, but it is not sentimental, and most
milkmaids. however red and robust they may be, are more
stupid and less practically fitted to make their way in the
world than I am. I think more and more correctly than
milkmaids in general do; consequently, where they would
often, for want,f reflection, act weakly, I, by dint of reflection, should act judiciously."
"Oh, no! you would be influenced by your feelings. You
would be guided by impulse."
"Of course, I should often be influenced by my feelings:
they were given me to that end. Whom my feelings teach
me to love, I must and shall love; and I hope, if ever I have
a husband and children, my feelings will induce me to love
them.  I hope, in that case, all my impulses will be strong
in compelling me to love."
Caroline had a pleasure in saying this with emphasis: she
had a pleasure in daring to say it in Mrs. Yorke's presence.
She did not care what unjust sarcasm might be hurled at her
ia reply: she flushed, not with anger, but excitement, when
the ungenial matron answered, coolly" Don't waste your dramatic effects. That was well said
— it was quite fine; but it is lost on two women: an old wife
and an old maid; there should have been a disengaged gentleman present. Is Mr. Robert nowhere hid behind the cur
tains, do you think, Miss Moore?"
Hortense, who, during the chief part of the conversation,,ad been in the kitchen superintending the preparations fbr
tea, did not yet quite comprehend the drift of the discourse
She answered, with a puzzled air, that Robert was at
Whinbury. AMrs. Yorke laughed her own peculiar short
laugh.
" Straightforward, Miss Moore!" said she, patronizingly
"It is like you to understand my question so literally, and answer it so simply. Your mind comprehends nothing of in.
trigue.  Strange things might go on around you without yout
ibeing the wiser: you are not of the class the world calls sharp
w' tted."
TI e se equivocal compliments did not seem to please P.oy




AN EVENING OUT.                     359
tense.  She dre w herself up, puckered her black eyebrows, but
still looked puzzled.' I have ever been noted for sagacity and discernment from
childhood," she returned; for, indeed, on the possession of these
qualities she peculiarly piqued herself.
" You never plotted to win a husband, I'll be bound," pursued Mrs. Yorke; " and you have not the benefit of previous
experience to aid you in discovering when others plot."
Caroline felt this kind language where the benevolent
speaker intended she should feel it-in her very heart. She
could not even parry the shafts: she was defenseless for the
present: to answer would have been to avow that the cap
fitted.  Mars. Yorke, looking at her as she sat with troubled,
downcast eyes, and cheek burning painfully, and figure expressing in its bent attitude and unconscious tremor all the
humiliation and chagrin she experienced, felt the sufferer was
fair game.  The strange woman had a natural antipathy to a
shrinkiing, sensitive character-a nervous temperament: noi
was a pretty, delicate, and youthful face a passport to hei
affections.  It was seldom she met with all these obnoxious
qualities combined in one individual: still more seldom she
found that individual at her mercy, under circumstances in
which she could crush her well. She happened, this afternoon, to be specially bilious and morose; as much disposed to
gore as any vicious " mother of the herd;" lowering her large
head, she made a new charge.
"Your cousin Hortense is an excellent sister, Miss HIelstone:
such ladies as come to try their life's luck here, at Hollow's
Cottage, may, by a very little clever female artifice, cajole the
mistress of the house, and have the game all in their own
hands. You are fond of your cousin's society, I dare say, miss?"
"Of which cousin's?"
"Oh! of the lady's, of course."
"IHortense is and always has been most kind to me."
E' very sister with an eligible single brother is considered
most kind by her spinster friends."
" Mrs. Yorke," said Caroline, lifting her eyes slowly, their
blue orbs at the same time clearing frorn trouble, and shining
steady and full, while the glow of shame left her cheek, and
its hue turned pale and settled: " Mrs. Yorke, may I ask what
you mean?"




360                   SHIIR-LEY.
" To give you a lesson on the cultiv'ccion af rectitude; to dis
gi.mt you with craft and false sentiment."
"Do I need this lesson?"
"Most young ladies of the present day need it.  You are
quite a modern young lady-morbid, delicate, professing to like
retirement; which implies, I suppose, that you find little
worthy of your sympathies in the ordinary world. The ordinary world —every-day, honest folks-are better than you think
them; much better than any bookish, romancing chit of a girl
can be, who hardly ever puts her nose over her uncle's-thle
parson-garden wall."
"Consequently, of whom you know nothing.  Excuse me
— indeed, it does not matter whether you excuse me or notyou have attacked me without provocation: I shall defend
myself without apology. Of my relations with my two cousins
you are ignorant: in a fit of ill-humor, you have attempted to
poison them by gratuitous insinuations, which are far more
crafty and false than any thing with which you can justly
charge me.  That I happen to be pale, and sometimes to look
diffident, is no business of yours. That I am fond of books,
and indisposed for common gossip, is still less your business.
That I am a'romancing chit of a girl' is a mere conjecture
on your part: I never romanced to you, nor to any body you
know. That I am the parson's niece is not a crime, though
you may be narrow-minded enough to think it so. You dislike me; you have no just reason for disliking me; therefore,
keep the expression of your aversion to yourself. If at any
time, in future, you evince it annoyingly. I shall answer even}
less scrupulously than I have done now."
She ceased, and sat in white and still excitement. She had
spoken in the clearest of tones, neither fast nor loud; but hei
silver accents thrilled the ear. The speed of the current in
her veins was just then as swift as it was viewless.
Mrs. Yorke was not irritated at the reproof; worded with a
severity so simple, dictated by a pride so quiet.  Turning
coolly to Miiss Moore, she said, nodding her cap approvingly" Sle has a spirit in her, after all.  Always speak as hon
estly as you have done just now," she continued,'' and you'll
do."
"I repel a recommendation so offensive," was the answer,
delivered in the same pure key, with the same clear look. " 




AN EVENING  OUT.                    361
rejet counsel poisoned bi insinuation. It is my right to speak
as I think proper: nothing binds me to converse as you dictate.  So far from always speaking as I have done just now,
l shall never address any one in a tone so stern, or in language
so harsh, unless in answer to unprovoked insult."
"Mother, you have found your match," pronounced little
Jessie, whom the scene appeared greatly to edify.  Rose had
heard the whole with an unmoved face.  She now said,
"No; Miss Helstone is not my mother's match-for she
allows herself to be vexed: my mother would wear her out in
a few weeks. Shirley Keeldar manages better. Mother, you
have never hurt Miss Keeldar's feelings yet.  She wears
armor under her silk dress that you can not penetrate."
Mrs. Yo1rke often complained that her children were muti
nots. It was strange, that with all her strictness, with all
her "strong-mindednes," she could gain no command over
them; a look from their father had more influence with them
than a lecture from her.
Miss Moore-to whom the position of witness to an altercation in which she took no part was highly displeasing, as
being an unimportant, secondary post-now, rallying her dignity, prepared to utter a discourse which was to prove both
parties in the wrong, and to make it clear to each disputant
that she had reason to be ashamed of herself, and ought to
submit humbly to the superior sense of the individual then
addressing her.  Fortunately for her audience, she had not
harangued above ten minutes, when Sarah's entrance with
the tea-tray called her attention, first, to the fact of that damsel having a gilt comb in her hair and a red necklace round
her throat, and secondly, and subsequently to a pointed remonstrance, to the duty of making tea. After the meal, Rose restored her to good-humor by bringing her guitar and asking
for a song, and afterward engaging her in an intelligent and
sharp cross-examination about guitar-playing and music in
general.
Jessie, meantime, directed her assiduities to Caroline. Sitting on a stool at her feet, she talked to her, first about religion and then about politics.  Jessie was accustomed at home
to drink in a great deal of what her father said on these subjects, and afterward in company to retail, with more wit and
f.ltency than consistency or discretion, his opinions, anl pathies.




362                    S H IRLE Y.
and preferenices. She rated Caroline soundly for being a mem,
ber of the Established Church, and for having an uncle a
clergyman.  She informed her that she lived on the country,
andZ ouoht to work for her living honestly, instead of passing a
useless life, and eating the bread of idleness in the shape of
tithes.  Thence Jessie passed to a review of the ministry at
that time in office, and a consideration of its deserts.  She
made fhmiliar mention of the names of Lord Castlereagh and
Mr. Perceval.  Each of these personages she adorned with a
character that might have separately suited Moloch and Belial.
She denounced the war as wholesale murder, and Lord Wellington as a " hired butcher."
Hter auditress listened with exceeding edification.  Jessie
had something of the genius of humor in her nature; it was
inexpressibly comic to hear her repeating her sire's denunciations in his nervous northern Doric; as hearty a little Jacobin
as ever pent a free, mutinous spirit in a muslin frock and sash.
Not malignant by nature, her language was not so bitter as it
was racy, and the expressive little face gave a piquancy to
every phrase which held a beholder's interest captive.
Caroline chid her when she abused Lord Wellingtonl; but
she listened delighted to a subsequent tirade against the Prince
Regent.  Jessie quickly read, in the sparkle of her hearer's
eye, and the laughter hovering round her lips, that at last she
had hit on a topic that pleased. Many a time had she heard
the fat "Adonis of fifty" discussed at her father's breakfasttable, and she now gave Mr. Yorke's comments on the theme.
genuine as uttered by his Yorkshire lips.
But, Jessie, I will write about you no more.  This is aD
autumn evening, wet and wild.  There is only one cloud in
the sky, but it curtains it from pole to pole.  The wind can
not rest; it hurries sobbing over hills of sullen outline, colorless with twilight and mist. Rlain has beat all day on that
church-tower; it rises dark from  the stony inclosure of its
grave-yard; the nettles, the long grass, and the tombs all drip
-with wet.  This evening reminds me too forcibly of another
evening some years ago-a howling, rainy, autumn evening,
too, when certain persons who had that day performed a pilgrimage to a grave new-made in a heretic cemetery, sat near
a wood-fire on the hearth of' a foreign dwelling.  They were
smerry and social, but they each knew that a gap, never to lb




AN EVENING  OUT.                    363
filled, nad been made in their circle.  They knew they had
lost something whose absence could never be quite atoned fot
so long as they lived; and they knew that heavy falling rain
was soaling into the a wet earth which covered their lost darling; and that the sad, sighing gale was mourning above her
buried head. The fire warmed them; life and friendship yet
blessed them; but Jessie lay cold, coffiled, solitary-only the
sod screening her from the storm.
Mrs. Yorke folded up her knitting, cut short the musiclesson and the lecture on politics, and concluded her visit to
the cottage, at an hour early enough to insure her return to
Briarmains before the blush of sunset should quite have faded
in heaven, or the path up the fields have become thoroughly
moist with evening dew.
The lady and her daughters being gone, Caroline felt that
she also ought to resume her scarf, kiss her cousin's cheek, and
trip away homeward. If she lingered much later, dusk would
draw on, anid Fanny would be put to the trouble of coming to
f3tch her. It was both baking and ironing day at the rectory,
she remembered —Fanny would be busy. Still, she could not
quit her seat at the little parlor-window. From no point of
view could the West look so lovely as from that lattice with
the garland of jessamine round it, whose white stars and green
leaves seemed now but gray pencil outlines, graceful in fobrm,
but colorless in tint, against the gold incarnadined of a sum.
mer evening —against the fire-tinged blue of an August sky.
at eight o'clock P.M.
Caroline looked at the wicket-gate, beside which holly-oaks
spired up tall; she looked at the close hedge of privet and
laurel fencing in the garden; her eyes longed to see something
more than the shrubs, before they turned from that limited
prospect; they longed to see a human figure, of a certain
mold and height, pass the hedge and enter the gate.  A
human figure she at last saw-nay, two: Frederick Murgatroyd went by, carrying a pail of water; Joe Scott followed,
dangling on his forefinger the keys of the mill.  They were
going to lock up mill and stables for the night, and then betake themselves home.'S So must I," thought Caroline, as she half rose and sighed
"This is all folly-heart-breaking folly," she added.  " In
c  e'




361                   SI 1' 1LEY.
the first place, though I should stay till dark, there will be no
arrival; because I feel in my heart, Fate has written it down
ina to-day's page of her eternal book, that I am not to have
thie pleasure I long for. In the second place, if he stepped
in this moment, my presence here would be a chagrin to him,
and the consciousness that it must be so would turn half my
blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps, be loose and chill,
if I put mine into it: his eye would be clouded, if I sought
its beam. I should look up for that kindling, something I
have seen in past days, when my face, or my language, or my
disposition had at some happy moment pleased him-I should
discover only darkness. I had better go home."
She took her bonnet from the table where it lay, and was
just fastening the ribbon, when Hortense, directing her atten
tion to a splendid bouquet of flowers in a glass on the same
table, mentioned that Miss Keeldar had sent them that morning from Fieldhead; and went on to comment on the guests
that lady was at present entertaining, on the bustling life she
had lately been leading; adding divers conjectures that she
did not very well like it, and much wonderment that a person
who was so fond of her own way as the heiress, did not find
some means of sooner getting rid of this cortege of relatives.
"But they say she actually will not let Mr. Sympson and
his family go," she added: " they wanted much to return to
the south last week, to be ready for the reception of the only
son, who is expected home from a tour. She insists that her
cousin Henry shall come and join his friends here in Yorkshire.
I dare say she partly dces it to oblige Robert and myself."
" How to oblige Robert and you?" inquired Caroline.
"Why, my child, you are dull.  Don't you know —you
must often have heard-"
"Please, ma'am," said Sarah, opening the door, "the preserves that you told me to boil in treacle-the congfiters, as
you call them-is all burned to the pan."
"Les confitures! Elles sont brldlees?  Ah, quelie negli.
gence coupable!  Coquine de cuisinigre —fille insupporta.
ble!"
And Mademoiselle, hastily taking fiom a drawer a large
linen apron, and tying it over her black apron, rushed " eperdue" into the kitchen, whence-to speak truth —exhaled an
odor of calcined sweets rather strong than savory.




AN EVENING  OUT.                    365
The nistress and maid had been in full feud the whole day.
on the subject of' preserving certain black cherries, hard as
marbles, sour as sloes.  Sarah held that sugar was the only
orthodox condiment to be used in that process; Mademoiselle
maintained-and proved it by the practice and experience of
her mother, grandmother, and great grandmother-that treacle, " melasse," was infinitely preferable. She had committed
an imprudence in leaving Sarah in charge of the preservingpan, fbr her want of sympathy in the nature of its contents
had induced a decree of carelessness in watching their confection, whereof the result was-dark and cindery ruin.  Hubbub followed: high upbraiding, and sobs rather loud than
deep or real.
Caroline, once more turning to the little mirror, was shading
her ringlets from her cheek to smooth them under her cottage
bonnet, certain that it would not only be useless but unpleasant
to stay longer; when, on the sudden opening of the back door,
there fell an abrupt calm in the kitchen: the tongues were
checked, pulled up, as with bit and bridle.  " Was it-was
it-Robert?"  He often-almost always-entered by the
kitchen-way -on his return from market. No; it was only
Joe Scott, who, having hemmed significantly thrice-every
hem beingf meant as a lofty rebuke to the squabbling woman
kind-said,
" Now, I thowt I heerd a; crack?"
None answered.
"And," he continued, pragmatically, "as t' maister s
comed, and as he'll enter through this hoyle, I considered it
desirable to step in and let ye know. A houseful o' women
is nivver fit to be comed on wi'out warning.  IHere he is:
walk forrard, sir. They war playing up queerly, but I think
I've quietened'cm."
Another person-it was now audible-entere 1. Joe Scott
proceeded with his rebukes.
" What d'ye mean by being all i' darkness? Sarah, thou
quean, canst t' not light a candle?  It war sundown an hour
syne. He'll brak' his shins agean some o' yer pots, and tables, and stuff.  Tak' tent o' this baking-bowl, sir; they've
set it i' yer way, fair as if they did it i' malice."
To Joe's observations succeeded a confused sort of pause
which Caroline, though she was listening with both her ears




366                   B~lSHIRLEY.
could not understand.  It was very brief; a cry broke lt —
sound of surprise, followed by the sound of a kiss: ejaculations,
but half articulate, succeeded.
" Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Est-ce que je im'y attendais?"
were the words chiefly to be distinguished.
" Et tu te portes toujours bien, bonne sceuI?" inquired an-:Ither voice-Robert's, certainly.
Caroline was puzzled.  Obeying an impulse, the wisdom
of which she had not time to question, she escaped from the
little parlor, by way of leaving the coast clear, and, running
up stairs, took up a position at the head of the banisters, whence
she could make further observations ere presenting herself. It
was considerably past sunset now: dusk filled the passage, yet
not such deep dusk but that she could presently see Robert
and Hortense traverse it.
"Caroline! Caroline!" called Hortense, a moment afterward, "venez voir mon frire!"
"Strange!" commented Mliss HIelstone, "passing stranrge'
What does this unwonted excitement about such an every-day
ccurrence as a return from market portend?  She has not
lost her senses, has she?  Surely the burned treacle has not
crazed her?"
She descended in a subdued flutter: yet more was she fluttered when Hortense seized her hand at the parlor-door, and
leading her to Robert, who stood in bodily presence, tall and
dark against the one window, presented her with a mixture
of agitation and formality, as though they had been utter
strangers,, and this was their first mutual introduction.
Increasing puzzle! Hte bowed rather awkwardly, and turn
ing from her with a stranger's embarrassment, he met th.
doubtful light from the window: it fell on his face, and the
enigma of the dream (a dream it seemed) was at its height:
she saw a visage like and unlike-Robert, and no Robert.
"What is the matter?" said Caroline.  "Is my sight
wro"g? Is it my cousin?"
"Certainly it is your cousin," asserted Hortense.
Then who was this now coming through the passagenow entering the room?  Caroline, looking round, met a new
Robert-the real Robe rt, as she felt at once.
"Well," said he, smiling at her questioning, astonished
ftee. "w whic.h is which?"




AN  EVENING  OUT.                   367
"Al'h  this is you!" was the answer.
Hie la.ughed.  "I believe it is me: and do you know wht
[e is?  You never saw him before; but you have heard of
him."
She had gathered her senses now.
" It can be only one person: your brother, since it is so like
voun: my other cousin, Louis."
"Clever little CEdipus! —you would have baffled the
Sphinx!-but now, see us together. Change places. Change
again, to confuse her, Louis.  Which is the old love now,
Lina?"
" As if it were possible to make a mistake when you speak!
You should have told Hortense to ask.  But you are not so
mullch alike: it is only your height, your figure, and complexion
that are so similar."
" And I am Robert, am 1 not?" asked the new-comer, mak.
itrg a first effort to overcome what seemed his natural shyness.
Caroline shook her head gently.  A soft expressive ray
from her eye beamed on the real BRobert: it said much.
She was not permitted to quit her cousin soon: Robert
himself was peremptory in obliging her to remain.  Glad,
simple, and affable in her demeanor (glad for this night, at
least), in light, bright spirits for the time, she was too pleasant
an addition to the cottage circle to be willingly parted with
by any of them.  Louis seemed naturally rather a grave, still,
retiring man, but the Caroline of this evening, which was not
(as you know, reader) the Caroline of every day, thawed his
reserve, and cheered his gravity soon.  He sat near her, and
talked to her.  She already knew his vocation was that of
tuition; blhe learned now he had for some years been the tutor
of Mr. Sympson's son; that he had been traveling with him,
and had accompanied him to the north. She inquired if he
liked his post, but got a look in reply which did not invite or
license further question.  The look woke Caroline's ready
sympathy: she thought it a very sad expression to pass over
so sensible a face as Louis's: for he had a sensible facethough not handsome, she considered, when seen near Robert's.
She turned to make the comparison. ]tobert was leaning
agaainst the wall, a little behind her, turning over the leaves
of a book of engravings, and probably listening, at the sam3';ine, to 11ihe dalogue between ner and Louis.




3G3                   SHIRLE Y.
"How could I think them alike?" she asked herself: "]
see now it is Itortense, Louis resembles, not Robert."
And this was in part true: he had the shorter nose and
longer upper lip of his sister, rather than the fine traits of his
brother: he had her mold of mouth and chin-all less declslve,
accurate, and clear than those of the young mill-owner. Iis
air, though deliberate and reflective, could scarcely be called
prompt and acute.  You felt, in sitting near and looking up
at him, that a slower and probably a more beni'nant nature
than that of the elder Moore shed calm on your impressions.
Robert-perhaps aware that Caroline's glance had wandei
ed toward and dwelt upon him, though he had neither met
nor answered it —put down the book of engravings, and approaching, took a seat at her side.  She resumed her conversation with Louis, but, while she talked to him, her thoughts
were elsewhere: her heart beat on the side from which her
face was half averted.  She acknowledged a steady, manly,
kindly air in Louis; but she bent before the secret power of
Robert.  To be so near him-though  he was silent —though
he did not touch so much as her scarf-fringe, or the white hem
of her dress-affected her like a spell.  Had she been obliged
to speak to him only, it would have quelled-but, at liberty
to address another, it excited her.  Her discourse flowed freely: it was gay, playful, eloquent. The indulgent look and
placid manner of her auditor encouraged her to ease; the sober
pleasure expressed by his smile drew out all that was brilliant
in her nature.  She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage, and, as Robert was a spectator, the consciousness
contented her: had he been called away, collapse would at
once have succeeded stimulus.
But her enjoyment was not long to shine full-orbed: a cloud
soon crossed it.
HIortense, who for some time had been on the move ordering supper, and was now clearing the little table of some books,
&c., to make room for the tray, called Robert's attention to
the glass of flowers, the carmine and snow and gold of whose
petals looked radiant indeel by candlelight.
"They came fiom Fieldhead," she said, "intended as a
gift to you, no doubt: we know who is the favorite theretnot [, Ir'n sure."




IVA LLEY OF TIHE SHADOW  OF DEATH.  369
It was a wonder to hear Hortense jest; a sign that 3h
spirits were at high-water mark indeed.
"W;e are to understand, then, that Robert is the favorite?"
observed Louis.
"Mon cher," replied Hortense, "[Robert-c'est tout ce
qu'il y a de plus pr'cieux au monde: a c6t6 de lui, le reste du
genre humain n'est que du rebut. 1N'ai-je pas raison, mon
enfant?" she added, appealing to Caroline.
Caroline was obliged to reply, " Yes"-and her beacon was
quenched: her star withdrew as she spoke.
" Et toi, Robert?" inquired Louis.
" When you shall have an opportunity, ask herself," was
the quiet answer. Whether he reddened or paled, Caroline
did not examine: she discovered that it was late, aind she
must go home. Home she would go: not even Robert could
detain her now.
CHAPTER XXIV.
TIIE VALLEY OF THE SIIADOW OF DEATH.
THE filture sometimes seems to sob a low warning of the
events it is bringing us, like some gathering though yet remote
storm, which, in tones of the wind, in flushings of the firmament, in clouds strangely torn, announces a blast strong to
strew the sea with wrecks; or commissioned to bring in fog
M'e yellow taint of pestilence, covering white Western isles
with the poisoned exhalations of the East, dimming the lattices of English homes with the breath of Indian plague. At
other times this Future bursts suddenly, as if a rock had rent,
and in it a grave had opened, whence issues the body of one
that slept. Ere you are aware, you stand face to face with a
shrouded and unthought-of Calamity-a new Lazarus.
Caroline Helstone went home from Hollow's Cottage in
good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning,
she felt oppressed with unwonted languor: at breakfast, at
each meal of the following day, 5he missed all sense of appe
tite: palatable food was as ashes and sawdust to her.




370                   SHIRLE Y.
" Am I ill?" she asked, and looked at herself in the glass
tlei eyes were bright, their pupils dilated, her cheeks seemed
rosier and fuller than usual.  "I look well; why can I not
eat?"
She ielt a pulse beat fast in her temples: she felt, too, her
brain in strange activity: her spirits were raised: hundreds
of busy and broken, but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind:
a glow rested on them, such as tinged her complexion.
Now followed a hot, parched, thirsty, restless night.  Toward morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger: when
she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.
How she had caught the fever (fever it was) she could not
tell. Probably, in her late walk home, some sweet, poisoned
breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma, had passed into
her lungs and veins, and finding there already a fever of mental
excitement, and a languor of long conflict and habitual sadness, had fanned the spark to flame, and left a well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, but a gentle fire: after two hot days
and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptoms,
and neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor Miss
Keeldar, when she called, had any fear for her: a few days
would restore her, every one believed.
The few days passed, and —though it was still thought
it could not long delay-the revival had not begun.  Mrs
Pryor, wLo had visited her daily-being present in her chamber one morning when she had been ill a fortnight-watched
her very narrowly for some minutes: she took her hand, and
placed her finger on her wrist; then, quietly leaving the chanmber, she went to Mr. Helstone's study.  With him  she re
mained closeted a long time-half the morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she laid aside shawl and bonnet:
she stood a while at the bedside, one hand placed in the other, gently rocking herself to and fro, in an attitude and with a
movement habitual to her.  At last she said,
"I have sent Fanny to Fieldhead to fetch a few things for
me, such as I shall want during a short stay here: it is my
wish to remain with you till you are better.  Your uncle
kindly permits my attendance: will it to yourself be acceptable, Caroline?"
"I aln sorry you should take such needlf ss trouble.  I do




VALLEY OF THE SHADOW  OF DEATH. 371
not feel very ill, but I can not refuse resolutely: it will be
such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you some
times in the room; but don't confine yourself on my account,
dear Mrs. Pryor.  Fanny nurses me very well."
Mrs. Pryor-bending over the pale little sufferer-was now
smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising her pil.
low. As she performed these offices, Caroline, smiling, lifted
her face to kiss her.
"Are you free from pain?  Are you tolerably at ease?" was
inquired in a low, earnest voice, as the self-elected nurse yielded
to the caress.
"I think I am almost happy."
"You wish to drink? Your lips are parched."
She held a glass filled with some cooling beverage to tler
mouth.
"Have you eaten any thing to-day, Caroline?'
" I can not eat."
"But soon your appetite will return: it must return; that
is, I pray God it may!"
In laying her again on the couch, she encircled her in her
arms; and while so doing, by a movement which seemed
scarcely voluntary, she drew her to her heart, and held her
close gathered an instant.
" I shall hardly wish to get well, that I may keep you always," said Caroline.
Mrs. Pryor did not smile at this speech: over her features
ran a tremor, which for some minutes she was absorbed in repressing.
" You are more used to Fanny than to me," she remarked,
ere long.  "I should think my attendance must seem strange,
officious?"
" No: quite natural, and very soothing.  You must have
been accustomed to wait on sick people, ma'am. You move
about the room so softly, and you speak so quietly, and touch
me so gently."
"I am dexterous in nothing, my dear. You will often find
me awkward, but never negligent."
Negligent, indeed, she was not. From that hour, Fanny
and Eliza became ciphers in the sick-room: Mrs. Pryor made
it her domain: she performed all its duties,- she lived in i:
day and night. The patient remonstrated-faintly. however




372  -                SHIRLEY.
fion, the first, and not at all ere long: IDneliness and gloont
were now banished from her bedside; protection and solace
sat there instead.  She and her nurse coalesced in wondrous
union.  Caroline was usual!y pained to require or receive
much attendance: Mrs. Pryor, under ordinary circumstances,
had neither the habit nor the art of performing little offices of
service; but all now passed with such ease —so naturally
that the patient was as willing to be cherished as the nurse
was bent on cherishing: no sign of weariness in the latter evei
reminded the former that she ought to be anxious. There
was, in fact, no very hard duty to perform; but a hireling
might have found it hard.
WVith all this care, it seemed strange the sick girl did not
get well; yet such was the case: she wasted like any snowwreath in thaw; she faded like any flower in drought. Miss
Keeldar, on whose thoughts danger or death seldom intruded,
had at first entertained no fears at all for her friend; but see
ing her change and sink from time to time when she paid her
visits, alarm clutched her heart.  She went to Mir. Helstone
and expressed herself with so much energy, that that gentleman was at last obliged, however unwillingly, to admit the
idea that his niece was ill of something more than a migraine;
and when Mrs. Pryor came and quietly demanded a physician,
he said she might send for two, if she liked. One carne, but
that one was an oracle: he delivered a dark saying of which
the future was to solve the mystery, wrote some prescriptions,
gave soine directions —the whole with an air of crushing
authority-pocketed his fee, and went.  Probably le knew
well enough he could do no good, but didn't like to say so.
Still, no rumor of serious illness got wind in the neighborhood. At Hollow's Cottage it was thought that Caroline had
only a severe cold, she having written a note to HIortense to
that effect; and mademoiselle contented herself with sending
two pots of currant jam, a receipt for a tisane, and a note of
advice.
Mrs. Yorke being told that a physician had been summoned,
sneered at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich and idle, who,
she said, having nothing but themselves to think about, must
needs send for a doctor if only so much as their little fingei
ached.
The " rich and idle," represented in the person of Caroline




VALLEY OF THE SHADOW  OF DEATH.  373
were meantime falling fast into a condit-ion of prostration,
whose quickly consummated debility puzzled all who witnessed it, except one; for that one alone reflected how liable is
the undermined structure to sink in sudden ruin.
Sick people often have fancies inscrutable to ordinary attendants, and Caroline had one which even her tender nurse
could not at first explain.  On a certain day in the week, at
a certain hour, she would- whether worse or better-entreat
to be taken up and dressed, and suffered to sit in her chair
near the window. This station she would retain till noon
was past: whatever degree of exhaustion or debility her wan
aspect betrayed, she still softly put off all persuasion to seek
repose until the church clock had duly tolled mid-day: the
twelve strokes sounded, she grew docile, and would meekly lie
down.  Rleturned to the couch, she usually buried her face
deep in the pillow, and drew the coverlets close round her, as
if to shut out the world and sun, of which she was tired: more
than once, as she thus lay, a slight convulsion shook the sickbed, and a faint sob broke the silence round it. These things
were not unnoted by tMrs. Pryor.
One Tuesday morning, as usual, she had asked leave to
rise, and now she sat wrapped in her white dressing-gown,
leaning forward in the easy-chair, gazing steadily and patiently fiom the lattice.  Mrs. Pryor was seated a little behind,
knitting as it seemed, but, in truth, watching hter.  A change
crossed her pale, mournful brow, animating its languor; E
light shot into her faded eyes, reviving their luster; she half
rose and looked earnestly out.  Mrs. Pryor, drawingzi  softly
near, glanced over her shoulder.  From  this window was
visible the church-yard, beyond it the road, and there, riding
sharply by, appeared a horseman. The figure was not yet too
remote for recognition: Mrs. Pryor had long sight; she klnew
Mr. Moore. Just as an intercepting rising ground concealed
him from view, the clock struck twelve.
" May I lie down again?" asked Caroline.
H1er nurse assisted her to bed: having laid hei dowln and
I:rawn the curtain, she stood listening near. The little couch
trembled, the suppressed sob stirred the air. A contraction,
as of anguish, altered Mrs. Pryor's features; she wrung hei
hands; half a groan escaped her lips.  She now remenibered
that Tllesday was Whinbury market-day: Mr. Moore must




374                   SHIRLEY
alwnya.y pass thel recto: y on his way thither, just ere noon of
that day.
Caroline wore continually round her neck a slender braid
of silk, attached to which was some trinket. Mrs. Pryor had
seen the bit of' gold glisten, but had not yet obtained a fail
view of it. Her patient never parted with it; when dressed,
it was hidden in her bosom; as she lay in bed she always
held it in her hand. ThatTuesday afternoon the transient doze
-more like lethargy than sleep-which sometimes abridged
the long days, had stolen over her: the weather was hot:
while turning in febrile restlessness, she had pushed the coverlets a little aside; Mrs. Pryor bent to replace them; the small,
wasted hand lying nerveless on the sick girl's breast, clasped
as usual her jealously-guarded treasure; those fingers, whose
attenuation it gave pain to see, were now relaxed in sleep:
Mrs. Pryor gently disengaged the braid, drawing out a tiny
locket-a slight thing it was, such as it suited her small purse
to purchase: under its crystal face appeared a curl of black
hair-too short and crisp to have been severed from a female
head.
Some agitated movement occasioned a twitch of the silken
chain: the sleeper started and woke.  Her thoughts were
usually now somewhat scattered on waking; her look generally wandering. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed,
"Don't take it from me, Robert! Don't! It is my last
comfort-let me keep it.  I never tell any one whose hair it
is- I never show it."
Mrs. Pryor had already disappeared behind the curtain: reclining far back in a deep arm-chair by the bed-side, she was
withdrawn from view. Caroline looked abroad into the chamber: she thought it empty.  As her stray ideas returned
slowly, each folding its weak wings on the mind's sad shore,
like birds exhausted-beholding void, and perceiving silence
round her, she believed herself alone. Collected, she was not
yet: perhaps healthy self-possession and self-control were to
be hers no more; perhaps that world the strong and prosperous live in had already rolled from beneath her feet forever:
so, at least, it often seemed to herself.  In health, she had
never been accustomedl to think aloud; but now words escaped
her lips unawares.
" Oh! I Vshoidd see hiln once more before all is over: Hreav.




VALLEY OF TIlE SHADOW  OF DEATH.  375
en mlight favor me thus far!" she cried.  "God grant me a
little comfort befobre I die!" was her humble petition.
" But he will not know I am ill, till I am gone; and he
will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless,
cold, and stiff.
"What can my departed soul feel then?  Can it see or
know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any
medium, communicate with living flesh?  Can the dead at
all revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements?
~Will wind, water, fire lend me a path to Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately
sometimes-sings as I have lately heard it sing at night-or
passes the casement sobbing, as if for sorrow to come? Does
nothing, then, haunt it-nothing inspire it?
"' Why, it suggested to me words one night: it poured a
strain which I could have written down, only I was appalled,
and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim watch.light.
" What is that electricity they speak of, whose changes
make us well or ill; whose lack or excess blasts; whose even
balance revives?  What are all those influences that are
about us in the atmosphere, that keep playing over our nerves
like fingers on stringed instruments, and call forth now a sweet
t:ote, and now a wail —now an exultant swell, and, anon, the
-addest cadence?
Wh" here is the other world?  In what will another life
consist?  Why do I ask?  Have I not cause to think that
the hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent
for me? Do I not know the Grand Mystery is likely to burst
prematurely on me? Great Spirit! in whose goodness I confide; whom, as my Father, I have petitioned night and morning from early infancy, help the weak creation of thy hands!
Sustain me through the ordeal I dread and must undergo!
Give me strength! Give me patience! Give me-oh! give
me FAITH'
She fell back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor found means to
steal quietly from the room: she re-entered it soon after, ap
parently as composed as if she had really not overheard this
strange soliloquy.
The next day several callers came. It had become known
that Mliss Helstone was worse. MJIr. I-Iall and his sister Mar




27 G                   8   EtL ~SHIRLEY.
garet arrived; both, after they had been in the silk-Xomnl
quitted it in tears: they had found the patient m re altered
than they expected. H-ortense Moore came. Caroline seermed stimulated by her presence: she assured her, smiling, she
~was not dangerously ill; she talked to her in a low voice, but
cheerfully: during her stay, excitement kept up the flush of
her complexion; she looked better.
"How is Mr. Robert?" asked Mrs. Pryor, as Hortensd was
preparing to take leave.
" ie was very well when he left."
"Left! Is he gone from home?"
It was then explained that some police intelligence about
the rioters of whom he was in pursuit, had, that morning,
called him away to Birmingham, and probably a fortnight
might elapse ere he returned.
"He is not aware that Miss Helstone is very ill?"
"Oh! no. He thought, like me, that she had only a bad
cold."
After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach Caroline's couch for above an hour: she heard her weep, and
dared not look on her tears.
As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline,
opening her eyes from a moment's slumber, viewed her nurse
with an unrecognizing glance.
"I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning," she said, " as I stood at the counting-house window."
Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving
listener's heart more poignantly than steel. They sound roe
mantie, perhaps, in books: in real life, they are harrowing.
" My darling, do you know me 1" said Mrs. Pryor.
" I went in to call Robert to breakfast: I have been with
him in the garden: he asked me to go: a heavy dew has refreshed the flowers: the peaches are ripening."
"My darling! my darling!" again and again repeated the
nurse.
" I thought it was daylight-long after sunrise: it looks
dark-is the moon not set."
That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upGl her
floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.
"Then it is not morning. I am not at the cottage   W Fvho
is this? —I see a shape at my bed-side."




VALLEY  OF THE SHADOW  OF1  D EATI.  377
"It is myself —it is your friend — your nurse - your.Lean 3 our head on my shoulder: collect yourself:" (In a low.
er tone.)  "Oh God, take pity! Give her life, and v~,t.
strength! Send me courage-teach me words!"
Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute anl
passive in the trembling arms-on the throbbing bosom of the
nurse.
" I am better now," whispered Caroline, at last, "mluch
better-I feel where I am: this is adMrs. Pryor near me: I
was dreaming-I talk when I wake up from dreams: people
often do in illness.  HIow fast your heart beats, ma'am! Do
not be afraid."
" It is not fear, child; only a little anxiety, which will
pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary; your uncle made
it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of
tea than any housewife can.  Taste it. He is concerned to
hear that you eat so little: he would be glad if you had a
b itter appetite."
" I am thirsty: let me drink."
She drank eagerly.
" WVhat o'clock is it, ma'am 2" she asked.
" Past nine."
"Not later 3 Oh! I have yet a long night before me; but
the tea has made me strong: I will sit up."
Mrs. Pryor raised her, and arranged her pillows.
" Thank Heaven! I am not always equally miserable, and
ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since-Ilortense
went: perhaps the evening may be better. It is a fine night,
I think I  The moon shines clear."
"Very fine: a perfect summer night. The old church
tower gleams white almost as silver."' And does the church-yard look peaceful?"
"Yes, and the garden also: dew glistens on the foliage."
"Can you see many long weeds and nettles among the
graves, or do they look turfy and flowery'"
"I see closed daisy-heads, gleaming like pearls on some
mounds. Thomas has mown down the dock-leaves and rank
grass, and cleared all away."
"I always like that to be done: it soothes one's mind to
see the place in order: and, I dare say, within the church
just now that moonlihht shines as softly as in my room.  JJ




378                   SH fRL EY.
will fail! through tile east window full on the Ilelstone monu
ment.  When I close my eyes I seem to see poor papa's epi
taph in black letters on the white marble.  There is plenty
of room for other inscriptions underneath."
"William Farren came to look after your flowers this
morning: he was afraid, now you can not tend them yourself, they would be neglected. He has taken two of your favorite plants home to nurse for you."
" If I were to make a will, I would leave Williamn all my
plants; Shirley my trinkets-except one, which must not be
taken off my neck; and you, ma'am, my books." (After a
pause)  "Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing wish for something."
" For what, Caroline?"
" You know I always delight to hear you sing: sing me a
hymn just now; sing me that hymn which begins,'Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come;
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
Our refuge, haven, home!'"
Mrs. Pryor at once complied.
No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing: her voice,
even in speaking, was sweet and silver-clear; in song, it was
almost divine: neither flute nor dulcimer has tones so pure.
But the tone was secondary compared to the expression which
trembled through: a tender vibration from a feeling heart.
The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the
stair-fbot to listen: even old Helstone, as he walked in the
garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature
of women, stood still among his borders to catch the mournful
melody more distinctly.  Why it reminded him of his forgotten dead wife he could not tell; nor why it made him more
concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline's fading girlhood. He was glad to recollect that he had promised to pay
Wynne, the magistrate, a visit that evening. Low spirits and
gloomy thoughts were very much his aversion: when they
attacked him he usually found means to make them march in
double-quick time. The hymn followed him faintly as he
crossed the fields: he hastened his customary sharp pace,
that he might get beyond its reach.
"Thy word commands our flesh to dust —
Return, ye sons of men;'




VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF Di.xkATH  379
All nations rose from earth at first,
And turn to earth again.
"A thousand ages in thy sight
Are like an evening gone;
Short as the watch that ends the night
Before the rising sun.
" Time, like an ever-rolling stream.
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
"Like flowery fields the nations stand,
Fresh in the morning light;
Tile flowers, beneath the mower's hand,
Lie withering ere'tis night.
" Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come;
Be thou our guard while troubles lastO Father, be our home!"
" Now sing a song-a Scottish song," suggested Caroline,
when the hymn was over; "'Ye banks and braes o' bonny')oon.' 
Again Mrs. Pryor obeyed, or essayed to obey.  At the
close of the first stanza she stopped; she could get no further;
ter full heart flowed over.
"You are weeping at the pathos of the air: come here,
and I will comfort you," said Caroline, in a pitying accent.'Mrs. Pryor came: she sat down on the edge of her patient's
bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.
" You often soothe me, let me soothe you," murmured the
young girl, kissing her cheek. "I hope," she added, "it is
not for me you weep?"
No answer followed.
" Do you think I shall not get better?  I do not feel very
ill-only weak."
" But your mind, Caroline: your mind is crushed; your
heart is almost broken: you have been so neglected, so repulsed, left so desolate."
"I believe grief is, and always has been, my worst ailment.
I sometimes think if an abundant gush of happiness came on
me, I could revive yet."
"Do you wish to live? 
" I have no object in lif,."
- - ~R




380                   SHIRLEY.
" You love nme, Caroline?"
" Very much-very truly-inexpressibly sometimes: just
now I feel as if I could almost grow to your heart."
"I will return directly, dear," remarked Mrs. Pryor, aa
Ehe laid Caroline down.
Quitting her, she glided to the door, softly turned the key
in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came back. She
bent over her.  She threw back the curtain to admit thb
moonlight more freely.  She gazed intently on her face.
"Then, if you love me," said she, speaking quickly, with
an altered voice; " if you feel as if-to use your own words
-you could'grow to my heart,' it will be neither shock nor
pain for you to know that that heart is the source whence
yours was filled; that from qmzy veins issued the tide which
flows in yours; that you are mine-my daughter-my own
child."
" Mrs. Pryor-!"
" NMy own child!"
" That is-that means-you have adopted me?"
" It means that, if I have given you nothing else, I at least
gave you life; that I bore you-nursed you; that I am your
true mother: no other woman can claim the title-it is mine."
" But Mrs. James Helstone-but my father's wife, whorm
I do not remember ever to have seen, she is my mother."
" She is your mother: James Helstone was any husband.
I say you are mzine.  I have proved it.  I thought, perhaps,
you were all his, which would have been a cruel dispensation
fobr me: I find it is not so. God permitted me to be the parent of my child's mind: it belongs to me; it is my property
— my right.  These features are James's own. He had a
fine face when he was young, and not altered by error. Papa,
my darling, gave you your blue eyes and soft brown hair; ho
gave you the oval of your face and the regularity of your lineaments: the outside he conferred, but the heart and the
brain are mine: the germs are from mne, and they are improved, they are developed to excellence. I esteem anwl ap.
prove rmy child as highly as I do most fondly love her."
" Is what I hear true?  Is it no dream?";I wish it were as true that the substance and color of
health were restored to your cheek."
" My own mother! is she one I can be so fond of as I can




VA LLEY OF THE SHiADOW  OF )BATH.  381
of you? People generally did not like her, so I have been
given to understand."
"They told you that?  Well, your mother now tells you
that, not having the gift to please people generally, for their
approbation she does not care: her thoughts are centered in
her child; does that child welcome or reject her?"
"But if you are my mother, the world is all changed to
me.  Surely T can live-I should like to recover-"
"You must recover. You drew life and strength from my
breast when you were a tiny, fair infant, over whose blue
eyes I used to weep, fearing I beheld in your very beauty the
sign of qualities that`.d entered my heart like iron, and
pierced through my soul like a sword. Daughter! we have
been long parted: I return now to cherish you again."
She held her to her bosom; she cradled her in her arms;
she rocked her softly, as if lulling a young child to sleep.
" My mother! My own mother!"
The offspring nestled to the parent; that parent, feeling
the endearment and hearing the appeal, gathered her closer
still. She covered her with noiseless kisses; she murmured
love over her, like a cushat fostering its young.
There was silence in the room for a long while.
"Does my uncle know?"
"Your uncle knows: I told him when I first came to stay
with you here."
"Did you recognize me when we first met at Fieldhead?"
"How could it be otherwise?  Mr. and Miss Helstone being announced, I was prepared to see my child."
" It was that, then, which moved you: I saw you disturbed."
"You saw nothing, Caroline: I' can cover my feelings.
You can never tell what an age of strange sensation I lived
during the two minutes that elapsed between the report of
your name and your entrance. You can never tell how your
look, mien, carriage shook me."
"Why? Were you disappointed?"
" What will she be like? I had asked myself; and when I
saw what you were like, I could have dropped."'Mamma, why?"
"I trembled in your presence.  I said I will vever own
her': she shall never know me."




38                   6SHIRLEY.
"But I said and did nothing remarkable.  I felt a  itlIt
diffident at the thought of an introduction to strangers, that
was all."
"I soon saw you were diffident; that was the first thing
which reassured me: had you been rustic, clownish, awkward,
I should have been content."
"You puzzle me."
"I had reason to dread a >air outside, to mistrust a popular bearing, to shudder before distinction, grace, and courtesy.
Beauty and affability had come in my way when I was recluse, desolate, young, and ignorant: a toil-worn governess
perishing of uncheered labor, breaking down before het time.
These, Caroline, when they smiled on me, I. mistook for angels! I followed them home, and when into their hands I had
given without reserve my whole chance of future happiness,
it was my lot to witness a transfiguration on the domestic
hearth: to see the white mask lifted, the bright disguise put
away, and opposite me sat down-oh God! I have suffered!"
She sank on the pillow.
" I have suffered!.None saw —none knew: there was no
sympathy-no redemption-no redress!"
" Take comfort, mother: it is over now."
" It is over, and not fruitlessly.  I tried to keep the word
of His patience: He kept me in the days of my anguish. I
was afraid with terror-I was troubled: through great tribulation He brought me through to a salvation revealed in
this last time.  Mly fear had torment —He has cast it out:
lie has given me in its stead perfect love.... But, CarLJ'ne"
Thus she invoked her daughter after a pause.
"Mother!"
"I charge you, when you next look on your father's monu.
rment, to respect the name chiseled there. To you he did
only good. On you he conferred his whole treasure of beauties; nor added to them one dark defect. All you derived
from him is excellent. You owe him gratitude.  Leave, between him and me, the settlement of our mutual account:
meddle not: God is the arbiter.  This world's laws never
came near us-never! They were powerless as a rotten
bulrush to protect me!-impotent as idiot babblings to re[train him! As you said, it is all over now: the grave lite




VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 383
between us. There he sleeps-in that church! To his dust
I say this night, what I have never said before,'James,
slumber peacefillly! See! your terrible debt is canceled!
Look! I wipe out the long, black account with my own
hand! James, your child atones: this living likeness of you
-this thing with your perfect features —this one good gift
you gave me has nestled affectionately to my heart, and
tenderly called me "mother."  Husband! rest forgiven!'"
" Dearest mother, that is right! Can papa's spirit hear
us?  Is he comforted to know that we still love him?"
" I said nothing of love: I spoke of forgiveness.  Mind the
truth, child-I said nothing of love! On the threshold of
eternity, should he be there to see me enter, will I maintair
that."'Oh, mother! you must have suffered!"
Oh, child! the human heart can suffer. It can hold
more tears than the ocean holds waters.  We never know
how deep-how wide it is, till misery begins to unbind her
clouds, and fill it with rushing blackness."
"Mother, forget."
"Forget!" she said, with the strangest specter of a laugh.
"' The North Pele will rush to the South, and the headlands
of Europe be locked into the bays of Australia, ere I fort —."'
" Hush, mother! rest!-be at peace!"
And the child lulled the parent, as the parent had erst
lulled the child. At last, Mrs. Pryor wept: she then grew
calmer.  She resumed those tender cares agitation had for a
moment suspended. Replacing her daughter on the couch,
she smoothed the pillow and spread the sheet. The soft hair
whose locks were loosened, she re-arranged, the damp brow
she refreshed with a cool, fragrant essence.
" Mamma, let them bring a candle, that I may see you;
and tell my uncle to come into this room by-and-by: I want
to hear him say that I am your daughter: and, mamma, take
your supper here: don't leave me for one minute to-night."
"Oh, Caroline! it is well you are gentle.  You will say
to me go, and I shall go; come, and I shall come; do this,
and I shall do it.  You inherit a certain manner as well as
certain features. It will be always' mamma' prefacing a
mandate: softly spoken though, fiom you, thank God! Well"
(sho added, under her breath), " he spoke softly too, once —ike




384                  SHIRLE~.
a flute breathing tenderness; and then, when the world was
not by to listen, discords that split the nerves and curdled the
blood —sounds to inspire insanity."
" It seems so natural, mamma, to ask you for this and that
I shall want nobody but you to be near me, or to do any
thing for me; but do not let me be troublesome: check me,
if I encroach."
"You must not depend on me to check you: you must
keep guard over yourself. I have little moral courage: the
want of it is my bane. It is that which has made me an
unnatural parent-which has kept me apart from my child
during the ten years which have elapsed since my husband's
death left -me at liberty to claim her: it was that which first
unnerved my arms and permitted the infant I might have
retained a while longer, to be snatched prematurely from their
embrace."
"How, mamma?"
-' I let you go as a babe, because you were pretty, and 1
feared your loveliness; deeming it the stamp of perversity.
They sent me your portrait, taken at eight years old; that
portrait confirmed my fears. Had it shown me a sunburned
little rustic-a heavy, blunt-featured, common-place childI should have hastened to claim you; but there, under the
silver paper, I saw blooming the delicacy of an aristocratic
flower-' little lady' was written on every trait.  I had too
recently crawled from under the yoke of the fine gentlemanescaped, galled, crushed, paralyzed, dying —to dare to eiicounter his still finer and most fairy-like representative.  My
sweet little lady overwhelmed me with dismay: her air of
native elegance froze my very marrow.  In my experience I
had not met with truth, modesty, good principle as the con
comitants of beauty. - A form so straight and fine, I argued,
must conceal a mind warped and cruel. I had little faith in
the power of education to rectify such a mind; or rather, I
entirely misdoubted my own ability to influence it.  Caroline, I dared not undertake to rear you: I resolved to leave
you in your uncle's hands.  Matthewson Helstone I knew,
if an austere, was an upright man.  He and all the world
thought hardly of me for my strange, unmotherly resolve, and
I deserved to be misjudged."
"Mamma, why did you call yourself Mrs. Pryor?"




VALLEY  OF TIlE  SHADOW  OF DE[.AHI.  885
"It was a name in my mother's family.  I adopted it that
i. might live unmolested.  My married name recalled too
vividly my married life: I could not bear it. Besides, threats
were uttered of forcing me to return to bondage: it could not
be; rather a bier for a bed-the grave for a home.  My new
name sheltered me: I resumed under its screen my old occu.
pation of teaching. At first, it scarcely procured me the
means of sustaining life; but how savory was hunger when I
fasted in peace! HEow safe seemed the darkness and chill of
an unkindled hearth, when no lurid reflection fiom terror
crimsoned its desolation! How serene was solitude, when I
feared not the irruption of violence and vice!"
" But, mamma, you have been in this neighborhood before.
Hlow did it happen, that when you reappeared here with Miss
Keeldar, you were not recognized?"
" I only paid a short visit, as a bride, twenty years ago;
and then I was very different to what I am now-slender, a]
most as slender as my daughter is at this day: my complex
ion —my very features are changed; my hair, my style of
dress-every thing is altered.  You can not fancy me a slim
young person, attired in scanty drapery of white muslin, with
bare arms, bracelets and necklace of beads, and hair disposed
in round Grecian curls above my forehead?"
"' You must, indeed, have been different.  Mamma, I
heard the front door open: if' it is my uncle coming in, just
ask him to step up stairs, and let me hear his assurance that
I am  truly awake and collected, and not dreaming or de
lirious."
The rector, of his own accord, was mounting the stairs;
and Mrs. Pryor summoned him to his niece's apartment.' She's not worse, I hope?" he inquired, hastily.
"I think her better: she is disposed to converse-she
seems stronger."
"Good!" said he, brushing quickly into the room.  " Ha,
Cary! how do?  Did you drink my cup of tea?  I made it
fbr you just as I like it myself."
"I drank it every drop, uncle: it did me good-it has made
me quite alive. I have a wish for company, so I beggedl Mrs
Pryor to call you in.:
The respected ecclesiastic looked pleased, and yet ernbar
rasedl-   He wTia   wvilling(T enough to bestow his cormpanyl oir




386                   SHI  ILE Y.
his sick niece for ten minutes, since it was her whim to wish
it; but what means to employ for her entertEinrlment, he
knew not: he hemmed-he fidgeted.
Y' You'll be up in a trice," he observed, by way of saying
something.  "The little weakness will soon pass off; and
then you must drink port wine-a pipe, if you can-and eat
game and oysters: I'll get them for you, if they are to be had
anry where.  Bless me! we'll make you as strong as Samson
efbre we've done with you."
" Who is that lady, uncle, standing beside you at the bedfoot?"
"Good God!" he ejaculated.  "She's not wandering-is
she, ma'am."
Mrs. Pryor smiled.
"I am wandering in a pleasant world," said Caroline, in a
soft, happy voice, " and I want you to tell me whether it is
real or visionary.  What lady is that?  Give her a name,
uncle?"
"4 Ve must have Dr. Rtile again, ma'am, or, better still,
lIacTurk: he's less of a humbug.  Thomas must saddle the
pony, and go for him."
" No: I don't want a doctor; mamma shall be my only
physician.  Now, do you understand, uncle?"
Mr. llelstone puslhed up his spectacles from his nose to his
forehead, handled his sntlufl:box, and administered to himself a
portion of the contents.  Thus fortified, he answered briefly 
" I see daylight.  You've told her, then, ma'am?"
"And is it true?" demanded Caroline, rising on her pillow.
" Is she rcally my mother 1"
" You won't cry, or make any scene, or turn hysterical, if
I answer Yes?"
" Cry?  I'd cry if you said No.  It would be terrible to
be disappointed now.  But give her a name: low do you
call her?"
" I call this stout lady in" a -quaint black dress, who loons
young enough to wear much smarter raiment, if she would —
I call her Agnes Helstone: she married my brother Jamer,
and is his widow."
"And my mother?"
" Vhat a little skeptic At is! Look at her small face, Mrs.
['ryor, scarcely larger than the palm of my hand, alive with




FVALLEY  OF THE SHADOW  OF DEATH    387
acuteness and eagerness."  (To Caroline).-" She nad the
trouble of bringing you into the world, at any rate: mind you,h0ow your duty to her by quickly getting well, and repairing
the waste of these cheeks.  Heigho! she used to be plump:
what she has done with it all, I can't, for the life of me, divine."
" If zwishing to get well will help me, I shall not be long
sick. This morning, I had no reason and no strength to
wish it."
Fanny here tapped at the door, and said that supper was
ready.
" Uncle, if you please, you may send me a little bit of sup
per-any thing you like, from your own plate. That is wiser
than going into hysterics-is it not?"
" It is spoken like a sage, Cary: see if I don't cater for you
judiciously.  When women are sensible-and, above all, intelligible-I can get on with them.  It is only the vague,
superfine sensations, and extremely wire-drawn notions, that
put me about. Let a woman ask me to give her an ediblh
or a wearable-be the same a roe's egg or the breast-plate of
Aaron, a share of St. John's locusts and honey or the leathern
girdle about his loins-I can, at least, understand the demand:
but when they pine for they know not what-sympathy-selntiment-some of these indefinite abstractions-I can't do it:
I don't know it; I haven't got it.  Madam, accept my arm."
Mrs. Pryor signified that she should stay with her daughter
that evening. Helstone, accordingly, left them together. Lie
soon returned, bringing a plate in his own consecrated hand.
" This is chicklen," he said.; " but we'll have partridge tomorrow. Lift her up, and put a shawl over her. On my
word, I understand nursing.  Now, here is the very same little silver fork you used when you first came to the rectory:
that strikes me as being what you may call a happy thought
-a delicate attention.  Take it, Cary. and munch away
cleverly."
Caroline did her best. Her uncle frowned to see that her
powers were so limited: he prophesied, however, great things
fobr the future; and as she praised the morsel he had brought,
and smiled gratefully in his face, he stooped over her pillow
kissed her, and said, with a broken, rugged accent,
"Good-night, bairnle! God bless theen "




3SS                   SHIRLEY.
Caroline enjoyed such peaceful rest that night, circled by
her mother's arms, and pillowed on her breast, that she fbrgot
to wish for any other stay; and though more than one feverish dream came to her in slumber, yet, when she woke up
panting, so happy and contented a feeling returned with returning consciousness, that her agitation was soothed almost
as soon as felt.
As to the mother, she spent the night like Jacob at Peniel
Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer
CHAPTERt XXV.
TIHE WEST WIND BLOWS.
NOT always do those who dare such divine conflict prevait.
Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the
fbrehead; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible.
" Spare my beloved," it may implore.  " IHeal my life's life.
Rend not fiom me what long affection entwines with my whole
nature.  God of heaven-bend-l hear-be clement!"  And
a(ter this cry and strife, the sun may rise and see him worstel. That opening morn, which used to salute him with the
whisper of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks, may breathe, as its
first accents, fiom the dear lips which color and heat have,sfitted,
"Oh! I have had a suffering night.  This morninc I am
worse. I have tried to rise. I can not.  Dreams I am unused to have troubled me."
Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees
a new and strange molding of the familiar features, feels at
once that the insufferable moment draws nigh, kncws that it
is God's vwill his idol shall be brolen, and bends his head, and
subdues his soul to the sentence he can not avert, and scarce
can bear.
Happy Mrs. Pryor! She was still praying, unconscious
that the surimmer sun hung above the hills, when her chill,]




TH     V WEST WIND  BLOWS.             389
softly woke in her arms. [No piteous, unconscious moan;ing —
sound which so wastes our strength that, even if we hav(,
sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears sweeps awa?
the oath-preceded her waking.  No space of deaf apathy
followed.  The first words spoken were not those of one becoming estranged from this world, and already permitted to
stray at times into realms foreign to the living.  Caroline
evidently remembered. with clearness what had happened.
"Mamma, I have slept so well. I only dreamed and woke
twice."
Mrs. Pryor rose with a start, that her daughter might not
see the joyful tears called into her eyes by that affectionate
word "mamma," and the welcome assurance that followed it
For many days the mother dared rejoice only with trerr.
bling.  That first revival seemed like the flicker of a dying
lamp: if the flame streamed up bright one moment, the next
it sank dim in the socket. Exhaustion followed close on excitement.
There was always a touching endeavor to a7cppear better,
but to often ability refused to second will; too often the at
tempt to bear up failed: the effort to eat, to talk, to look
cheerful, was unsuccessful.  Many an hour passed, during
which Mrs. Pryor feared that the chords of life could never
more be strengthened, though the time of their breaking might
be deferred.
During this space, the mother and daughter seemed left
almost alone in the neighborhood.  It was the close of August: the weather was fine-that is to say, it was very dry
and very dusty, for an arid wind had been blowing from the
east this month past; very cloudless, too, though a pale haze,
stationary in the atmosphere, seemed to rob of all depth of tone
the blue of heaven, of all freshness the verdure of earth, and
of all glow the light of day. Almost every family in Briarfield was absent on an excursion.  Miss Keeldar and her
friends were at the sea-side; so were Mars. Yorke's household.
Mr. Hall and Louis Moore, between whom a spontaneous intimacy seemed to have arisen, the result, probably, of harmony
of views and temperament, were gone " up north" on a pedestrian excursion to the lakes. Even Hlortense, who would
fhin have stayed at home and aided Mrs. Pryor in nursing Car.
oline, had been so earnestly entreated by Miss M-inn to ae




390                   SH1It LEY.
company her once more to Wormwood Wells, in the Lope c!
alleviating sufferings greatly aggravated by the insalubrious
weather, that she felt obliged to comply: indeed, it was not
in her nature to refuse a request that at once appealed( to her
goodness of heart, and-by a confession of dependency-flatteoed her amour-propre.  As for Robert, from Birmingham
he had gone on to London, where he still sojourned.
So long as the breath of Asiatic deserts parched Caroline's
lips and fevered her veins, her physical convalescence could
not keep pace with her returning mental tranquillity; but
there came a day when the wind ceased to sob at the eastern
gable of the rectory, and at the oriel window of the church.
A little cloud like a man's hand arose in the west; gusts from
the same quarter drove it on and spread it wide; wet and
tempest prevailed a while.  WVhen that was over the sun
broke out genially, heaven regained its azure, and earth its
green: the livid cholera-tint had vanished from the face of
nature: the hills rose clear round the horizon, absolved from
that pale malaria-haze.
Caroline's youth could now be of some avail to her, and so
could her mother's nurture: both-crowned by God's blessing,
sent in the pure west wind blowing soft as fi-esh through the
ever-open chamber lattice-rekindled her long-languishing energfies. At last Mrs. Pryor saw that it was permitted to hope
-a genuine, material convalescence had commenced.  It was
not merely Caroline's smile which was brighter, or her spirits
which were cheered, but a certain look had passed from her
face and eye-a look dread and indescribable, but which -will
easily be recalled by those who have watched the couch of
dangerous disease.  Long before the emaciated outlines of hel
aspect began to fill, or its departed color to return, a more
subtle change took place: all grew softer and warmer.  Instead of a marble mask and glassy eye, Mrs Pryor laid on the
pillow a face pale and wasted enough, perhaps more haggard
than the other appearance, but less awful; for it was a sick
living girl-not a mere white mold, or rigid piece of statuary.
Now, too, she was not always petitioning to drink.  The
words, "I am so thirsty," ceased to be her Plaint.  Sometimes, when she had swallowed a morsel, she -% ould say it had
revived her: all descriptions of food were no loinger equally
distastefull; he could be induced, sometimes, to inlicate i




THIE  WEST WIND  BILOWS.                 391
preference.  With what trembling pleasure and anxious care'lid not her nurse prepare what was selected   How she
twatched her as she partook of it 
Nourishment brought strength.  She could sit up.  Then
she longed to breathe the fresh air, to revisit her flowers, to
see how the fruit had ripened.  Her uncle, always liberal, had
bought a garden-chair for her express use: he carried her
down in his own arms, and placed her in it himself, and William Farren was there to wheel her round the walks, to show
her what he had done among her plants, to take her directions
for further work.
William  and she found plenty to talk about: they had a
dozen topics in common; interesting to them, unimportant to
the rest of the world. They took a similar interest in animals, birds, insects, and plants: they held similar doctrines
about humanity to the lower creation; and had a similar turn
for minute observation on points of natural history. The nest
and proceedings of some ground-bees, who had burrowed in the
turf under an old cherry-tree, was one subject of interest; the
haunts of certain hedge-sparrows, and the welfare of certain
pearly e(rggs and callow fledglincgs, another.
Had " Chambers's Journal" existed in those days, it would
certainly have formed Miss Helstone's and Farren's favorite
periodical. She would have subscribed for it; and to him
each number would duly have been lent: both would have
put implicit faith, and found great savor in its marvelous anecdotes of animal sagacity.
This is a digression; but it suffices to explain why Caroline would have no other hand than William's to guide her
chair, and why his society and conversation sufficed to give
interest to her garden-airings.
Mrs. Pryor, walking near, wondered how her daughter could
be so much at ease with a " man of the people." She found
it impossible to speak to him otherwise than stiffly. She felt
as if a great gulf lay between her caste and his; and that to
cross it, or meet him half way, would be to degrade herself
She gently asked Caroline,
" Are you not afraid, my dear, to converse with that person
so unreservedly?  Hie may presume and become troublesomely garrulous."
W' ~illiam presume, mamnna  I You don't know him   He




392                   SHt I R LEY.
never presumes  lhe is altogether too proud aiad s Mnsitive to de
so.  W,'illiam has very fine feelings."
And Mrs. Pryor smiled skeptically at the naive not'cn of
tlhat rough-handed, rough-headed, fustian-clad clown having
" ine feelings."
Farren, for his part, showed Mrs. Pryor only a very sulky
brow. He knew when he was misjudged, and was apt t6
turn unmanageable to such as failed to give him his due.
The evening restored Caroline entirely to her mother, and
Mrs. Pryor liked the evening; for then, alone with her daughter, no human shadow came between her and what she loved
-During the day, she would have her stiff demeanor and cool
moments, as was her wont.  Between her and Mr. Helstone,
a very respectfhl but most rigidly ceremonious intercourse was
kept up: any thing like familiarity would have bred contempt
at once in one or both these personages; but by dint of
strict civility and well-maintained distance, they got on very
smoothly.
Toward the servants, Mrs. Pryor's bearing was not uncourtnous, but shy, freezing, ungenial.  Perhaps it was diffi.
denee rather than pride which made her appear so haughty;
but, as was to be expected, Fanny and Eliza failed to make
the distinction, and she was unpopular with them accordingly.
She felt the effect produced: it rendered her at times dissatisfied with herself fobr faults she could not help; and with all
else, dejected, chill, and taciturn.
This mood changed to Caroline's influenze, and to that in
itluence alone. The dependent fondness of her nursling, the
natural affection of her child, came over her suavely: her
i'ost fell away; her rigidity unbent: she grew smiling and
pliant.  Not that Caroline made any wordy profession of
love-that would ill have suited i/Mrs. Pryor: she would have
lead therein the proof of insincerity; but she hung on her
with easy dependence; she confided in her with fearless reli.
ance: these things contented the mother's heart.
She liked to hear her daughter say " Mamma, dlo this.'
"Please, mamma, fetch me that."  "Mamma, read to me."
Sing a little, mamma."
Nobody else-not one living thing —had ever so claimed
her services, so looked fobr help at her hand. Other people
were alwalys more or less reserved and stiff with her, as she




THE  WEST WIND BLOWS                   393
was reserved and stiff with them; other people betrayed consciousness of; and annoyance at. her weak points: Caroline no
more showed such wounding sagacity or reproachful sensitiveness now than she had done when a suckling of three months
old.
Yet Caroline could find fault.  Blind to the constitutional
defects that were incurable, she had her eyes wide open to the
acquired habits that were susceptible of remedy. On certain
points she would quite artlessly lecture her parent; and that
parent, instead of being hurt, felt a sensation of pleasure in
discovering that the girl dared lecture her; that she was so
much at home with her.
" Mamma, I am determined you shall not wear that old
gown a[ny more; its fashion is not becoming; it is too strait
in the skirt. You shall put on your black silk every afternoon; in that you look nice: it suits you; and you shall
have a black satin dress for Sundays-a real satin-not a satinet or any of the shams.  And, mamma, when you get the
new one, mind you must wear it."
" My dear, I thought of the black silk serving me as a best
dress for many years yet, and I wished to buy you several
things.
" Nonsense, mamma: my uncle gives me cash to get what
I want: you know he is generous enough; and I have set
ray heart on seeing you in a black satin. Get it soon, arind
let it be made by a dress-maker of my recommending; let
mr.e choose the pattern.  You always want to disguise yourself like a grandmother: you would persuade one that you
are old and ugly-not at all! On the contrary, when well
~ressed and cheerful, you are very comely indeed. Your smile
is so pleasant, your teeth are so white, your hair is still such
a pretty light color. And then you speak like a young lady,
with such a clear, fine tone, and you sing better than any
young lady I ever heard. Why do you wear such dresses
and bonnets, mamma, such as nobody else ever wears 2"
"Does it annoy you, Caroline?"
"Very much: it vexes me even. Pedple say you are mu1nerly; and yet you are not, for you give liberally to the pool
and to religious societies: though your gifts are conveyed so
secretly and quietly that they are known to few except the
receivers.  But I will be your lady's maid myself when I




394                  SHIRLEY.
get a little stronger I will set to work, and you must be good
arnamna, and do as I bid you."
And Caroline, sittinlr near her mother, re-arranged her m.nus
lin. handkerchief, and re-smoothed her hair.
"My own mamma," then she went on, as if pleasing her.
self with the thought of their relationship, " who belongs to
me, and to whom I belong! I am a rich girl now: I have
something I can love well, and not be afraid of loving. Mamma, who gave you this little broach?  Let me unpin it and
look at it."
Mrs. Pryor, who usually shrank from meddling fingers and
near approach, allowed the license complacently.
"Did papa give you this, mamma?"
"My sister gave it me-my only sister, Cary.  Would
Ahat your aunt Caroline had lived to see her niece!"
"I Have you nothing of papa's?-.no trinket, no gift of his?"
"I have one thing."
"That you prize'."
"That I prize."
"Valuable and pretty?"
"Invaluable and sweet to me."
"Show it, mamma.  Is it here or at Fieldhead?"' It is talking to me now, leaning on me: its arms are
round me."
"Ah, mamma! you mean your teazing daughter, who will
never let you alone; who, when you go into your room, can
nrot help running to seek for you; who follows you up stairs
and down like a dog."
"% Whose features still give me such a strange thrill sometimes. I half fear your fair looks yet, child."
"'You don't; you can't.  Mamma, I am sorry papa was
not good: I do so wish he had been. Wickedness spoils and
poisons all pleasant things: it kills love. If you and I thought
each other wicked, we could not love each other, could we?"
"And if we could not trust each other, Cary?"
"How miserable we should be! Mother, before I knew
you, I had an apprehension that you were not good, that I
could not esteem you: that dread damped my wish to see
you; and now my heart is elate because I find you perfectalmost; kind, clever, nice.  Your sole fault is that you are
nld-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma, put




THE WEST WIND  BLOWS.                  39S
your wrlrk down: read to me. I like your southern accent:
it is so pure, so soft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang,
such as almost every one's voice here in the north has.  My
uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a fine reader, mamma.
Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with such propriety of expression or purity of accent."
"I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but
really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read
and preach, I could not understand his broad, northern tongue."
" Could you understand me, mamma. Did I seeni to
speak roughly?"
" No: I almost wished you had, as I wished you had looked unpolished. Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke well;
quite otherwise than your worthy uncle: correctly, gently,
smoothly. You inherit the gift."
"Poor papa! When he was so agreeable, why was he
not good 2"
" Why, he was as he was-and, happily, of that you, child,
can form no conception-I can not tell: it is a deep mystery.
The key is in the hands of his Maker; there I leave it."
"Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away: put
down the sewing; I am an enemy to it. It cumbers your
lap, and I want it for my head: it engages your eyes, and I
want them for a book. Here is your favorite-Cowper."
These importunities were the mother's pleasure. If ever
she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them repeated,
and to enjoy her child's soft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency. And then, when she yielded, Caroline would say, archly,
"c You will spoil me, mamma. I always thought I should
like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet."
So (lid Mrs. Pryor.




396                   SHIRLEY.
CHtAPTER XXVI.
OLD COPY-BOOKS.
By3 the time the Fieldhead party rYturned to Briarfield,
Caroline was nearly well.  Miss Keeldar, who had received
news by post of her friend's convalescence, hardly suffired an
hour to elapse between her arrival at home and her first call
at the Rectory.
A shower of rain was falling gently yet fast on the late
flowers and russet autumn shrubs, when the garden-wicket
was heard to swing open, and Shirley's well-known form passed the window.  On her entrance, her feelings were evinced
in her own peculiar fashion. When deeply moved, by serious
fears or joys, she was not garrulous. The strong emotion was
rarely suflered to influence her tongue; and even her eye reufsed it more than a furtive and fitful conquest.  She took
Caroline in her arms, gave her one look, one kiss, and then said.,
" You are better."
And a minute after, " I see you are safe now, but take
care.  God grant your health may be called on to sustain no
more shocks!"
She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey.  In the
midst of vivacious discourse her eye still wandered to Caroline: there spoke in its light a deep solicitude, some trouble,
and some amaze.
" She may be better," it said; "but how weak she still is!
What peril she has come through!"
Suddenly her glance reverted to Mrs. Pryor: it pierced her
through.
" When will my governess return to me?" she asked.
" May I tell her all?5" demanded Caroline of her mother.
Leave being signified by a gesture, Shirley was presently en.
lighltened on what had happened in her absence.
"Very good!" was the cool comment. "Very good! But
it is no news to me."
"What! DIid yol knlow?




OLD  COPY-BOOK"'                    397
"I giessed long since the whole I usiness.  I have heard
onomewhat of Mrs. Pryor's history-not from h.erself, but fiom
others.  With every detail of Mr. James Helstone's career
and character, I was acquainted: an afternoon's sitting and
conversation with Miss Mann had rendered me familiar therewith: also, he is one of Mrs. Yorke's warning examples-one
of the blood-red lights she hangs out to scare young ladies
frorn matrimony.  I believe I should have been skeptical
about the truth of the portrait traced by such fingers-both
these ladies take a dark pleasure in offering to view the dalrk
side of life-but I questioned Mr. Yorke on the subject, and
he said,' Shirley, my woman, if' you want to know aught
about yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a mar.tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous, courteous, cruel-' Don't cry, Cary; we'll say no more about it."
"I am not crying, Shirley; or if I am, it is nothing-go
on: you are no friend if youl withhold from me the truth: 1
hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the truth."
"_Fortunately, I have said pretty nearly all that I have to
say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke's
words: for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those con.
ventional subterfuges that are shabbier than lies."
" But papa is dead: they should let him alone now."
" They should-and we wvill let him  alone.  Cry away,
Cary, it will do you good: it is wrong to check natural tears;
besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at
this moment beams in your mother's eye while she looks at
you: every drop blots out a sin. Wreep-your tears have the
virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked: like Jordan, they
can cleanse a leprous memory.
"Madam," she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, " did you
think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your
daughter together — marking your marvelous similarity in
nany points-observing-pardon me —your irrepressible emotions in the presence, and still more in the absence of your
child, and not form my own conjectures  Z   fbrmed t:hem,
sud they are literally correct.  I shall begin to thini myself:hrewd."
"And you said nothing?" observed Caroline, who soon re.
gained the quiet control of her feelings.
"Noilting.  I had no warrant to breathe a word ~,, the




898                    SHIIRLEY.
subject.  lry business it was not: I abstained fit mn snaking
it such."
"You guessed so deep a secret, and did not hint that you
guessed it?"
"Is that so difficult.'i
" It is not like you."
"How do you know?"
"You are not reserved. You are frankly communicative."
"I may be communicative, yet know where to stop.  In
showing my treasure, I may withhold a gem or two —a curious, unbought, graven stone-an amulet, of whose mystic
glitter I rarely permit even myself a glimpse. Good-day."
Caroline thus seemed to get a view of Shirley's character
under a novel aspect.  Ere long, the prospect was renewed:
it opened upon her.
No sooner had she regained sufficient strength to bear a
change of scene-the excitement of a little society-than Miss
Keeldar sued daily fobr her presence at Fieldhead. Whether
Shirley had become wearied of her honored relatives is not
known: she did not say she was; but she claimed and retained Caroline with an eagerness which proved that an addition to that worshipful company was not unwelcome.
The Sympsons were Church people: of course, the rector's
niece was received by them with courtesy.  Mr. Sympson
proved to be a man of spotless respectability, worrying temper, pious principles, and worldly views; his lady was a very
good woman, patient, kind, well-bred. She had been brough;
up on a narrow system of views-starved on a few prej udices 
a mere handful of bitter herbs; a few preferences, soaked till
their natural flavor was extracted, and with no seasoning
added in the cooking; some excellent principles, made up in
a stiff raised-crust of bigotry, difficult to digest: far too submissive was she to complain of this diet, or to ask for a crumb
beyond it.
The daughters were an example to their sex. They were
tall, with a Roman nose a piece.  They had been educated
faultlessly. All they did was well done. History, and the
most solid books, had cultivated their minds.  Principles and
opinions they possessed which could not be mended.  More
exactly-regulated lives, feelings, manners, habits, it would
have been difficult to find any where.  They knew by heart




OLD  COPY-BOOKS.                  399
a certain young-ladies'-school-room code of la-ws on la igruag,
demearinr, &c.; themselves never deviated from its curious
little pragmatical provisions; and they regarded with secret,
whispered horror, all deviations in others. The Abomination
of Desolation was no mystery to them: they had discovered
that unutterable Thing in the characteristic others call Originality.  Quickl were they to recognize the signs of this evil;
and wherever they saw its trace-whether in look, word, or
deed; whether they read it in the fresh, vigurous style of a
book, or listened to it in interesting, unhackI;eyed, pure, expressive language —they shuddered-they recoiled; danger
was above their heads-peril about their steps.  What was
this strange Thing?  Being unintelligible, it must be bad
Let it be denounced and chained up.
HIenry Sympson-the only son, and youngest child of the
family —was a boy of fifteen.  He generally kept with his
tutor; when he left him, he sought his cousin Shirley. This
boy differed from his sisters: he was little, lame, and pale;
his large eyes shone somewhat languidly in a wan orbit: they
were, indeed, usually rather dim —but they were capable of
illumination: at times, they could not only shine, but blaze:
inward emotion could likewise give color to his cheek and deeision to his crippled movements. Henry's mother loved him;
she thought his peculiarities were a mark of election: he was
not like other children, she allowed; she believed him regenerate-a new Samuel-called of God fiom his birth: he was
to be a clergyman. Mr. and the Misses Sympson, not understanding the youth, let him much alone. Shirley made him
her pet; and he made Shirley his playmate.
In the midst of this family circle-or, rather, outside it —
moved the tutor-the satellite.
Yes: Louis Moore was a satellite of the house of Sympson.
connected, yet apart; ever attendant-ever distant.  Each
member of that correct family treated him with proper dignitv. The father was austerely civil, sometimes irritable; the
mother, being a kind woman, was attentive, but formal; the
daughters saw in him an abstraction, not a man. It seemed,
by their manner, that their brother's tutor did not live foi
them. They were learned: so was he-but not for them.
They were accomplished: he had talents, toe, imperceptible
to their senses.  The most spirited sketch from his fingers was




400                   S i- RL LEY.
a blank to their eves; the most origina observation fi~orn his
lips fell unheard on their ears.  Nothing could exceed the pro'
priety of their behavior.
I should have said, nothing could have equaled it; but I
remembered a fact which strangely astonisnea Caroline Helstone.  It was-to discover that her cousin had absolutely no
sympathizing friend at Fieldhead: that to Miss Keeldar he
was as much a mere teacher, as little a gentleman, as little a
man, as to the estimable Misses Sympson.
What had befallen the kind-hearted Shirley that she should
be so indifiTrent to the dreary position of a fellow-creature thus
isolated under her roof?  She was not, perhaps, haughty to
him, but she never noticed him: she let him alone. IHe came
and went, spoke or was silent, and she rarely recognized his
existence.
As to Louis Moore himself he had the air of a man used to
this life, and who had made up his mind to bear it for a time
His faculties seemed walled up in him, and were unmurmuring in their captivity.  He never laughed; he seldom smiled;
he was uncomplaining.  IHe fulfilled the round of his duties
scrupulously.  His pupil loved him; he asked nothing more
thanL civility from the rest of the world. It even appeared
that he would accept nothing more-in that abode at least;
for when his cousin Caroline made gentle overtures of fiiendship, he did not encourage them; he rather avoided than sought
her. One living thing alone, besides his pale, crippled scholar,
he fondled in the house, and that was the ruffianly Tartar;
who, sullen and impracticable to others, acquired a singular
partiality for him: a partiality so marked that sometimes,
when Moore, summoned to a meal, entered the room and sat
down unwelcomed, Tartar would rise from his lair at Shirley's
feet, and betake himself to the taciturn tutor.  Once-but
once-she noticed the desertion; and holding out her white
hand, and speaking softly, tried to coax him back.  Tartax
looked, slavered, and sighed, as his manner was, but yet dis-'
regarded the invitation, and coolly settled himself on his
haunches at Louis Moore's side. That gentleman drew the
dog's big, black-muzzled head on to his knee, patted him, and
Amiled one little smile to himself.
An acute observer might have rem rked, in the course of
the same evening, that after Tartar ha i resumed his allegianci




OT.I  COPY-BOOKS.                  401
to Shirley, and was once more couched near h<rt foot-stool, the
audacious tutor by one word and gesture fascinated him again.
tIe pricked up his ears at the word; he started erect at the
gesture, and came, with head lovingly depressed, to receive the
expected caress: as it was given, the significant smile again'ippled across Moore's quiet face.
"Shirley," said Caroline, one day, as they two were sitting
alone in the summer-house, " did you:know that my cousin
Louis was tutor in your uncle's family before the Symnpsons
came down here?"
Shirley's reply was not so prompt as her responses usually
were, but at last she answered,
" Yes-of course: I knew it well."
" I thought you must have been aware of the circumstance."
"Well! what then?"
"It puzzles me to guess how it chanced that you never
mentioned it to me."
" Why should it puzzle you?"
" It seems odd. I can not account for it. You talk a great
deal-you talk freely. How was that circumstance never
touched on?"
"Because it never was," and Shirley laughed.
"You are a singular being!" observed her friend: "I
thought I knew you quite well: I begin to find myself mistaken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor; and
now, again, here is another secret.  But why you made it a
secret is the mystery to me."
"I never made it a secret: I had no reason for so doing.
If you had asked me who I-Ienry's tutor was, I would have told
you; besides, I thought you knew."
"I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter:
you don't like poor Louis-why?  Are you impatient at what
you perhaps consider his servile position? Do you wish that
Robert's brother were more highly placed?"
"Robert's brother, indeed!" was the exclamation, uttered
in a tone like the accents of scorn; and, with a movement of
proud impatience, Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peepintg through the open lattice.
"Yes," repeated Caroline, with mnild firmness; " Robert's
brother.   I —e is thus 3losely related tc. G-drard Moore of the




402                  S H  RLEY.
Hollow, though Nature has not given him fteatures so hand
some, or an air so noble as his kinsman; but his blood is as
good, and he is as much a gentleman, were he free."
" Wtise, humble, pious Caroline!" exclaimed Shirley, iron.
ically. "M en and angels, hear her! We should not despise
plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation, should
we?  Look at the subject of your panegyric-he is there in
the garden," she continued, pointing through an aperture in
the clustering creepers; and by that aperture Louis Moore was
visible, coming slowly down the walk.
" He is not ugly, Shirley," pleaded Caroline; "he is not
ignoble; he is sad: silence seals his mind; but I believe him
to be intelligent; and be certain, if he had not something very
commendable in his disposition, Mr. HIall would never seek his
society as he does."
Shirley laughed: she laughed again; each time with a
slightly sarcastic sound.  "Well, well," was her comment.' On the plea of the man being Cyril Hall's friend, and Robert Moore's brother, we'll just tolerate his existence-won't we,
Cary? You believe him to be intelligent, do you? Not quite
an idiot-eh?  Something commendable in his disposition'.
id est, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations
have weight with me; and to prove that they have, should
he conice this way I will speak to him."
He approached the summer-house: unconscious that it was
tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his customary
companion, had followed him, and he couched across his feet.
" Old boy!" said Louis, pulling his tawny ear, or, rather,
the mutilated remains of that:organ, torn and chewed in a
hundred battles; "the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on Ub
as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours, but
we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don't we?"
He sat silent, still caressing Tartar, who slobbered with exceeding affection.  A faint twittering commenced among the
trees round: something fluttered down as light as leaves: they
were little birds, which, lighting on the sward at shy distance,
hopped as if expectant.
" The small brown elves actually remember that I fed them
the other day," again soliloquized Louis.  "They want some
more biscuit: to-day, I forgot to save a fragment.  Eager lit.
tle sprites, I have not a crumb for you"




OLD COPY-BOOKS.                   403
He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.
"A want easily supplied," whispered the listening Miss
Keeldar.
She took from her reticule a morsel of sweet-cake; for
that repository was never destitute of something available to
throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows; she crum
bled it, and, bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs into his
hand.
"There," said she; " there is a Providence for the improi;dent."
"This September afternoon is pleasant," observed Louis
Moore, as-not at all discomposed-he calmly cast the crumbs
to the grass.
"Even for you?"
" As pleasant for me as for any monarch."
"You take a sort of harsh, solitary triumph in drawing
pleasure out of the elements, and the inanimate and lower animate creation."
" Solitary, but not harsh. VWith animals I feel I am Adam's
son: the heir of him to whom dominion was given over'every
living thing that moveth upon the earth.' Your dog likes
and follows me; when I go into that yard, the pigeons from
your dove-cot flutter at my feet; your mare in the stable
knows me as well as it knows you, and obeys me better."
"' And my roses smell sweet to you, and my trees give you
shade.''
" And," continued Louis, " no caprice can withdraw these
pleasures from mre: they are gmine."
He walked off: Tartar followed him, as if in duty and
affection bound, and Shirley remained standing on the summerhouse step. Caroline saw her face as she looked after the rude
tutor: it was pale, as if her pride bled inwardly.
"You see," remarkled Caroline, apologetically, " his feelings
are so often hurt, it makes him morose."
"You see," retorted Shirley, with ire, "he is a. topic on
which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it often; so drop
it henceforward and forever."
"I suppose he has more than once behaved in this way,"
thought Caroline to herself; "and that renders Shirley so
distant to hirn: yet I wonder she can not make allowance for
%haracter and circumstmnces: I wonder the general modesty
S




404                   S -H I R L EY,
manliness, sincerity of his nature, do not plead with her.i, his
behalf.  She is not often so inconsiderate-so irritable."
The verbal testimony of two friends of Caroline's to hei
cousin's character augmented her favorable opinion of him.
William Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company
with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a "real gentleman:" there
was not such another in Briarfield: he-William-" could
do aught for that man.  And then to see how t' bairns liked
him, and how t' wife took to him first mrinute she saw him:
he never went into a house but t' childer wor about him directly: thenL little things wor like as if they'd a keener sense
nor grown-up folks i' finding out folks' natures."
Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone's, as to
what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly, that he
was the best fiellow he had met with since he left Cambridge
" But he is so grave," objected Caroline.
"Grave! The finest company in the world! Full of odd,
quiet, out-of-the-way humor. Never enjoyed an excursion so
much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes.
His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man
good to be within their influence; and as to his temper and
sLa.ture, I call them fine."
"At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the
character of being misanthropical."' Oh! I fancy he is rather out of place there-in a false
position. The Sympson's are most estimable people, but not
the folks to comprehend him: they think a great deal about
form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis's way"' I don't think Miss Keeldar likes him."
" She doesn't know him —she doesn't know him; otherwise,
she has sense enough to do justice to his merits."
"Well, I suppose she doesn't know him," mused Caroline
to 1herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavored to account
for what seemed else unaccountable. But such simple solution of the difficulty was not left her long: she was obliged to
refuse Miss Keeldar even this negative excuse for her prejudice
One day she chanced to be in the school-room with I-lenry
Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition had
quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was busiesd
about some mechanic, l contrivance: his lameness made himl




OLD COPY-BOOKS.                   405
fond of sedentary occupation: he began to ransack his tutor's
desk for a piece of wax, or twine, necessary to his work. Moore
happened to be absent. Mr. Hall, indeed, had called for him
to take a long walk.  Henry could not immediately find the
object of his search: he rummaged compartment after compartment; and, at last opening an inner drawer, he came
upon-not a ball of cord, or a lump of beeswax-but a little
bundle of small marble-colored cahiers, tied with tape. Henry
looked at them:
" What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk!" he said.
"I hope he won't keep my old exercises so carefully."' What is it?".
"Old copy-books."
He threw the bundle to Caroline.  The packet looked so
neat externally, her curiosity was excited to see its contents.
" If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open them?"
" Oh! yes; quite freely. Mr. Moore's desk is half minefor he lets me keep all sorts of things in it —and I give you
leave."
On scrutiny, they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely clean and
clear. The writing was recognizable: she scarcely needed
the further evidence of the name signed at the close of each
theme, to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished
her: " Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove, -— shire" (a southern county), and a date four years back.
She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating
over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a
confidence.
"qThey are Shirley's, you see," said Henry, carelessly.
" Did you give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with
Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?"
" She wrote them in my school-room at Sympson Grove,
when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French:
it is his native language."
"I lknow..     Was she a good pupil, Henry?"
"She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in
the room: she made lesson-time charming. She learned fast
-you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing
to her: she spoke it quick-quick; as quick as Mr. lMoore
himself."




406                  SEH IRLE Y."Was she obedient?  Did she give trouble?"
" She gave plenty of trouble in a way: she was giddy, but
[ liked her. I'm desperately fond of Shirley."
" Desperately fond-you small simpleton! You don't know
what you say."
"I am desperately fond of her: she is the light of my eyes;
I said so to IMr. Moore last night."
"He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration."
"He didn't. He never reproves and reproves, as girls' governesses do. lie was reading, and he only smiled into his
book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that,
she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a dimeyed, short-sighted little chap. I'm afraid I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know."
"Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow;
and if God has not given you health andi strength, he has
given you a good disposition, and an excellent heart and brain."
" I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and
you despise me."
"Listen, Henry.  Generally, I don't like school-boys: I
have a great horror of them. They seem to me little ruffians,
who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds,
and insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves; but you are so different, I am quite fond of you. You
have almost as much sense as a man (far more, God weot,"
she muttered to herself, "than many men); you are fond of'
reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read."
" I am fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know
I have feeling."
Bliss Keeldar here entered.' "Henry," she said, "I have brought your lunch here: I
shall prepare it for you myself."
She placed on the table a glass of' new milk, a plate ot
something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil
which resembled a toasting-fork.
"What are you two about," she continued, " ransaiking
Mr. Moore's desk?"
"Looking at your old copy-books," returned Caroline.
~' My old copy-books?"
"Frenclh exercise-books. Look beie! They must be held
precious: they are kept carefully."




OLD COPY-BOOKS.                   407
She showed the bundle,. Shirley snatched it up.
"Did not lknowv one was in existence," she said. "I thonght
Hlie whole lot had long since lit the kitchen-fire, or curled the
maid's hair at Sympson Grove. What made vou keep them,
Henry."
"It is not my doing: I should not have thought of it: it
never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value.  Mr.
Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk: perhaps
hoe forgot them."
" C'est cela; he forgot them, no doubt," echoed Shirley.
"They are extremely well written," she observed, complacently.
" What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! I
remember you so well: a slim, light creature whom, though
you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your
long, countless curls on your shoulders, and your streaming
sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively, that is, at first:
I believe you grieved him after a while."
Shirley turned the closely-written pages and said nothing
Presently she observed, " That was written one winter after
noon. It was a description of a snow-scene."
" I remember," said Henry; " Mr. Moore, when he read
it, cried' voila le Frangais gagne!' He said it was well done.
Afterward you made him draw, in sepia, the landscape you
described."
"You have not forgotten then, Hal?"
"Not at all.  WVe were all scolded that day for not coming
down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor sitting
at his easel, and you standing behind him, holding the candle,
and watching him draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer
couched under it, and the half-moon hung above."
"WVhere are his drawings, Harry?  Caroline should see
them."
"In his port-folio; but it is padlocked: he has the key."
"Ask him for it when he comes in."
iYou should ask him, Shirley; you are shy of him now:
you are grown a proud lady to him, I notice that."
"Shirley, you are a real enigma," whispered Caroline iu
her ear.  " What queer discoveries I make day by day now.
I, who thought I had your confidence.  Inexplicable creature
even this boy reproves you."




408                  SIIIRLEY.
"I have forgotten'auld lang syne,' you see, Iarry," saia
Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not heeding
Carolib ne.
~Which you never should have done. You don't deserve
to be a man's morning star, if you have so short a memory."
"A man's morning star indeed! and by'a man,' is meant
your worshipful self, I suppose? Come, drink your new milk
while it is warm."
The young cripple rose and limped toward the fire: he had
left his crutch near the mantle-piece.
" MJy poor lame darling!" murmured Shirley, in her softest
voice, aiding him.
" Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam WVynne best, Shirley?" inquired the boy, as she settled him in an arm-chair.
" Oh, Harry! Sam Wynne is my aversion: you are my
pet.)"
" Mie or Mr. Malone?"
" You again, a thousand times."
" Yet, they are great whiskered fellows, six feet high each.:'
" Whereas, as long as you live, Harry, you will never be
any thing more than a little pale lameter."
" Yes, I know."
"You need not be sorrowful. Have I not often told you
who was almost as little, as pale, as suffering as you, and yet
potent as a giant, and brave as a lion?"
" Admiral Horatio?"
"Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson, and iDuke of Bronte:
great at heart as a Titan; gallant and heroic as all the world
and age of chivalry; leader of the might of England; commander of her strength on the deep; hurler of her thunder
over the flood."
"A great man: but I am not warlike, Shirley: and yet
my mind is so restless, I burn day and night-for what —I
can hardly tell-to be-to do-to suffer, I think."
" Harry, it is your mind, which is stronger andl older than
your frame, that troubles you. It is a captive. It lies in
physical bondage. But it will work its own redemption
yet. Study carefully, not onily books, but the world. You.ove Nature; love her without fear.  Be patient-wait the
course of time. You will not be a soldier or a sailor, Hlenry;




OLD COPY-B3.ro  C,L                409
jbut, if you live, you will be-iisten to my prophecy —a ou will
be an author-perhaps, a poet."
"An author! It is a flash-a flash of light to me   I will
-I will!  I'll write a book that I may dedicate it to you."
" You will write it, that you may give your soul its natural
release.  Bless me! what am I saying? more than I understand, I believe, or can make good.  Here, Hal; here is your
toasted oat-cake-eat and live!"
" Willingly!"  Here cried a voice outside the open window,
" 1 know that fragrance of meal bread.  Miss Keeldar, may
I come in and partake?"
"Mr. Hall" (it was Mr. Hall, and with him  was Louis
Moore, returned from their walk), " there is a proper luncheon
laid out in the dining-room, and there are proper people seated
round it: you may join that society and share that fare if you
please; but if your ill-regulated tastes lead you to prefer illregulated proceedings, step in here, and.do as we do."
" I approve the perfume, and therefore shall suffer myself
to be led by the nose," returned Mr. Hall, who presently
entered, accompanied by Louis Moore.  That gentleman's eye
fell on his desk, pillaged.
" Burglars!" said he.  " Henry, you merit the ferule."
"Give it to Shirley and Caroline-they did it," was alleged with more attention to effect than truth.
"Traitor and false witness!" cried both the girls.  "We
never laid hands on a thing, except in the spirit of laudable
inquiry."
"Exactly so," said Moore, with his rare smile.  "And
what have you ferreted out, in your'spirit of laudable in
quiry?"'
I-He perceived the inner drawer open.
" This is empty," said he. "Who has taken —?"
"Here! here!" Caroline hastened to say; and she restored
tile little packet to its place. He shut it up; he locked it in
with a small key attached to his watch-guard; he restored
the other papers to order, closed the repository, and sat down
without further remark.
"I thought you would have scolded much more, sir," said
Henry.  "The girls deserve reprimand."
"I leave them to their own consciences."
"It accuses them of crimes intended as well as perpetrated,




410                    S HIRLEY.
sir.  If I had not been here,,le6y would have treated youl
port-folio as they have done your desk; but'I told them it was
padlocked."' And will you have lunch with us?" here interposed Shir-!ey, addressing Moore, and desirous, as it seemed, to turn the
conversation.
" Certainly, if I may."
"You will be restricted to new milk and Yorkshire oat
cake."
" Va-pour le lait frais!" said Louis.  "But for your oatcake!" and he made a grimace.
"He can not eat it," said Henry: " he thinks it is like bran,
raised with sour yeast."
" Come, then, by special dispensation, we will allow him a
few cracknels; but nothing less homely."
The hostess rang the bell and gave her frugal orders, which
were presently executed. She herself measured out the milk,
and distributed the bread round the cozy circle now inclosing
the bright little school-room fire.  She then took the post of
toaster-general; and kneeling on the rug, fork in hand, fulfilled her office with dexterity.  Mr. Ilall, who relished any
homely innovation on ordinary usages, and to whom the husky
oat-cake was from custom  suave as manna-seemed in his
best spirits.  IHe talked and laughed gleefully-now wvith
Caroline, whom he had fixed by his side, now with Shirley,
and again with Louis Moore.  And Louis met him in congenial spirit: he did not laugh much, but he uttered in the
quietest tone the wittiest things.  Gravely spoken sentences,
marked by unexpected turns and a quite fresh flavor and poigrnancy, fell easily from his lips.  He proved himself to bewhat Mr. Hall had said he was-excellent company.  Caroline marveled at his humor, but still more at his entire selfpossession.  Nobody there present seemed to impose on him
a sensation of unpleasant restraint: nobody seemed a borea check-a chill to him; and yet there was the cool and lofty
Miss Keeldar kneeling before the fire, almost at his feet.
But Shirley was cool and lofty no longer-at least not at
this moment. She appeared unconscious of the humility of
her present position-or, if conscious, it was only to taste a
charm in its lowliness.  It did not revolt her pride that the
group to whom she voluntarily officiated as handmaid should




OLD COPY-BOOKS.                    411
mnclude her coasin's tutor: it did not scare her that while she
handed the bread and milk to the rest, she had to offer it to
him also; and Moore took his portion from her hand as calmly
as if he had been her equal.
" You are overheated now," he said, when she had retained the fork for some time:'; let me relieve you."
And he took it fiom her with a sort of quiet authority, to
which she submitted passively-neither resisting him  nor
thanking him.
" I should like to see your pictures, Louis," said Caroline,
when the sumptuous luncheon was discussed.  " Would not
you, Mr. Iall?"
" To please you, I should; but, for my own part, I have
cut him as an artist. I had enough of him in that capacity
in Cumberland and Wrestmoreland.  Many a wetting we got
among the mountains because he would persist in sitting on
a camp-stool, catching effects of rain-clouds, gathering mists,
fitful sunbeams, and what not."
"Here is the port-folio," said Henry, bringling it in olne hand,
and leaning on his crutch with the other.
Louis took it, but lie still sat as if he wanted another to
speak.  It seemed as if he would not open it unless the proud
Shirley deigned to show herself interested in the exhibition.
" He makes us wait to whet our curiosity," she said.
"You understand opening it," observed Louis, giving her
the key.  " You spoiled the lock fbr me once —try now."
He held it: she opened it; and, monopolizing the contents,
had the first view of every sketch herself.  She enjoyed the
treat-if treat it were —in silence, without a single comment.
Moore stood behind her chair and looked over her shoulder,
and when she had done, and the others were still gazing, he
left his post and paced through the room.
A carriage was heard in the lane-the gate-bell rang'
Shirley started.
"There are callers," she said, " and I shall be summoned
to the room.  A pretty figure-as they say-I am to receive
company: I and Hlenry have been in the garden gathering
fruit half the morning. Oh, for rest under my own vine, and
my own fig-tree! Happy is the slave-wife of the Irdian
chief, in that she has no drawing-room duty to perform  bu,
can.l sit  at ease woeving mats, and stringing beads, and peace




412                   SHIRLEY.
fully flattening her picaninny's head in an unmolested cornel
of her wigwam.  I'll emigrate to the western woods."
Louis Moore laughed.
"To marry a White Cloud or a Big Buffalo; and after
vcedloclk to devote yourself to the tender task of digging your
lord's maize-field, while he smokes his pipe or drinks fire.
water."
Shirley seemed about to reply, but here the school-roori
door unclosed, admitting Mr. Sympson.  That personage
stood aghast when he saw the group around the fire.
"I thought you alone, Miss Keeldar," he said. "I find
quite a party."
And evidently, from his shocked, scandalized all-had he
not recognized in one of the party a clergyman-he wouldt
have delivered an extempore philippic on the extraordinary
habits of his niece: respect for the cloth arrested him.
" I merely wished to announce," he proceeded, coldly, " that
the family from De Walden Hall, Mr., Mrs., the Misses, and
Mr. Sam Wynne, are in the drawing-room."  And he bowed,
and withdrew.
" The family from De Walden Hall! Couldn't be a worse
set," murmured Shirley.
She sat still, looking a little contumacious, and very much
indisposed to stir.  She was flushed with the fire; her dark
hair had been more than once disheveled by the morning
wind that day; her attire was a light, neatly fitting, but
amply flowing dress of muslin; the shawl she had worn in
the garden was still draped in a careless fold round her. Indolent, willful, picturesque, and singularly pretty was her asF':ct-prettier than usual, as if some soft inward emotionsuirred who knows how?-had given new bloom and expression to her features.
"Shirley —Shirley, you ought to go," whispered Caroline.
"I wonder why i"
She lifted her eyes, and saw in the glass over the fire-place,
toth Mr. Hall and Louis Moore gazing at her gravely.
"If," she said, with a yielding smile —" if a majority of
the present company maintain that the De Walden Hall people have claims on my civility, I will subdue my inclinationis
to my duty. Let those who think I ought to go, hold upz
their hands."




THE FIRST BLUE STOCKING.                 413
Again consulting the mirror, it reflected a unanimous vote
against her.
"You must go," said Mr. IIall, " and behave courteously,
too. You owe many duties to society. It is not permitted
you to please only yourself."
Louis Moore assented with a low " Hear! hear!"
Caroline, approaching her, smoothed her wavy curls, gave
to her attire a less artistic and more domestic grace, and
Shirley was put out of the room, protesting still, by a pouting
lip, against her dismissal.
"There is a curious charm about her," observed Mr. Hall,
when she was gone.  " And now," he added, " I must away,
for Sweeting is off to see his mother, and there are two friu
nerals."
"Henry, get your books; it is lesson-time," said Moore,
sitting down to his desk.
"A curious charm!" repeated the pupil, when he and his
master were left alone.  "True. Is she not a kind of white
witch?" he asked.
" Of whom are you speaking, sir?"
" Of my cousin Shirley."
"' No irrelevant questions. Study in silence."
Mr. Moore looked and spoke sternly —-sourly. Henry knew
this mood: it was a rare one with his tutor; but when it
came he had an awe of it: he obeyed.
CIIAPTER XXVII.
THE FIRST BLUE STOCKING.
Miss KEELDAR and her uncle had characters that would
not harmonize-that never had harmonized.  He was irritable, and she was spirited; he was despotic, and she liked
freedom; he was worldly, and she, perhaps, romantic.
Not without purpose had he come down to Yorshire: his
mission was clear, and he intended to discharge it conscien
tiously: he anxiously desired to have his niece married; to




414                   SHIRLE Y.
make for her a suitable match; give her in charge to a
proper husband, and wash his hands of her fcrever.
The misfortune was, from infancy upward, Shirley and he
nad disagreed on the meaning of the words " suitable" and
"proper."  She never yet had accepted his definition; and it
was doubtful whether, in the most important step of her life,
she would consent to accept it.
The trial soon came.
Mr. Wvylnne proposed in form for his son, Samuel Fawthrop
Wynne.
"Decidedly suitable!  Most proper!" pronounced Mr.
Sympson.  "A fine unencumbered estate; real substance;
good connections.  It must be done.!"
He sent for his niece to the oak-parlor; he shut himself up
there with her alone; he communicated the oflfi, he gave
his opinion; he claimed her consent.
It was withheld.
"No: I shall not marry Samuel Fawthrop Wynne.'
" I ask why?  I must have a reason. In all respects he
is more than worthy of you."
She stood on the hearth; she was pale as the white marble
slab and cornice behind her; her eyes flashed large, dilated,
unsmiling.
" And I ask in what sense that young man is worthy ofne?"
"He has twice your money-twice your common sense;
equal connections-equal respectability?"
" Had he my money counted five score times, I would take
no vow to love him."
"Please to state your objections."
" lie has run a course of' despicable, commonplace profllgacy. Accept that as the first reason why I spurn him."
" Miss Keeldar, you shock me!"
"That conduct alone sinks him in a gulf of immeasurable
inferiority.  His intellect reaches no standard I can esteem:
there is a second stumbling-block.  His views are narrow;
his feelings are blunt; his tastes are coarse; his manners
vulgar."
" The man is a respectable, wealthy man.  To refuse him
is presumption on your part."
" I refuse, point-blank! Cease to annoy me with the sub
iect: I forbid it'




THE FIRST BLUE STOCKING.                 415
"Is it y our intention ever to marry, or do you prefer celi.
I)a',y?"
" I deny your right to claim an answer to that question."
" May I ask if you expect some manl of title-some peer
r f the realm-to demand your hand?"
" I doubt if the peer breathes on whom I would confei- it."
"Were there insanity in the family, I should believe you
mad.  Your eccentricity and conceit touch the verge of
phrensy."
" Perhaps. ere I have finished, you will see me overleap it."
"I anticipate no less. Frantic and impracticable girl!
Take warning!-I dare you to sully our name by a misalli.
~IlCe t"
" Otr name! Am I called Sympson?"
"God be thanked that you are not! But be on your guard!
I will not be trifled with!"
" What, in the name of common law and common sense,
would you, or could you do, if my pleasure led me to a choice
you disapproved?"
"Take care! take care!" (warning her with voice and
hand that trembled alike).
" Why. Wrhat shadow of power have you over me I
W~hy should Ifear you?"' Take care, madam ["
" Scrupulous care I will take, Mr. Sympson. Before I
narry, I am resolved to esteem-to admire-to love."
"Preposterous stuff —indecorous!-unwomanly!"
" To love with my whole heart.  I know I speak in an unknown tongue; but I feel indifferent whether I am comprehended or not."
" And if this love of yours should fall on a beggar?"
" On a beggar it will never fall. Mendicancy is not estimable."
" On a low clerk, a play-actor, a play-writer, or —or-"
" Take courage, Mr. Sympson! Or what?"
" Any literary scrub, or shabby, whining artist."
"For the scrubby, shabby, whiningr, I have no taste: for
literature and the arts, I have. And there I wonder how
your Flawthrop Wynne would suit nme?  le can not write
a note without orthcgraphical errors; he reads only a sponting
paper' he was the'Dooby of Stilbro' grammar school "




416                  SH. RLEY.
"Unlady-like language!  Great God! to what will she
core 2"  He lifted hands and eyes.
" Never to the altar of Hymen with Sam WVynne.`'
" To what will she come?  Why are not the laws more
btringent, that I might compel her to hear reason."
" Console yourself, uncle.  Were Britain a serfdom, and
you the czar, you could not compel me to this step.  I will
write to Mr. Wynne.  Give yourself no further trouble on
the subject."
Fortune is proverbially called changeful, yet her caprice
often takes the form of repeating again and again a similar
stroke of luck in the same quarter. It appeared that Miss
Keeldar-or her fortune-had by this time made a sensation
in the district, and produced an impression in quarters by her
unthought of. No less than three offers followed Mr. Wynne's
-all more or less eligible.  All were in succession pressed on
her by her uncle, and all in succession she refused.  Yet
among them there was more than one gentleman of unexcep
tionable character, as well as ample wealth. Many besides
her uncle asked what she meant, and whom she expected to
entrap, that she was so insolently fastidious.
At last, the gossips thought they had found the key to her
conduct, and her uncle was sure of it; and, what is more, the
discovery showed his niece to him in quite a new light, and
he changed his whole deportment to her accordingly.
Fieldhead had, of late, been fast growing too hot to hold
them both: the suave aunt could not reconcile them; the
daughters froze at the view of their quarrels: Gertrude and
Isabella whispered by the hour together in their dressingroom, and became chilled with decorous dread-if they chanced
to. be left alone with their audacious cousin. But, as I have
said, a change supervened: Mr. Sympson was appeased and
his family tranquilized.
The village of Nunnely has been alluded to: its old church,
its forest, its monastic ruins.  It had also its Hall, called the
Priory-an older, a larger, a more lordly abode than any
B3riarfield or Whinbury owned; and, what is more, it hadi its
man of title-its baronet, which neither Briarfield - ox WEI i,




THE FIRST BLUE STOCKING.                  417
bury. could boast. This possession-its proudest and most
prized-had fobr years been nominal only: the prcsent baronet, a young man hitherto resident in a distant province, was
unknown on his Yorkshire estate.
During Miss Keeldar's stay at the fashionable wateringplace of Cliffbridge, she and her friends had met with and
been introduced to Sir Philip Nunnely.  They encountered
him again and again on the sands, the cliffs, in the various
walks, sometimes at the public balls of the place. He seemed
solitary; his manner was very unpretending-too simple to
be termed affable; rathei timid than proud: he did not condescend to their society-he seemed glad of it.
With any unaffected individual, Shirley could easily and
quickly cement an acquaintance.  She walked and talked
with Sir Philip; she, her aunt, and cousins, sometimes took
a sail in his yacht. She liked him because she found him
kind and modest, and was charmed to feel she had the power
to amuse him.
One slight drawback there was-where is the fiiendship
without it?-Sir Philip had a literary turn: he wrote poetry,
sonnets, stanzas, ballads. Perhaps Miss Keeldar thought him
a little too fond of reading and reciting these compositions;
perhaps she wished the rhyme had possessed more accuracythe measure more music —the tropes more freshness —the inEpiration more fire: at any rate, she always winced when he
recurred to the subject of his poems, and usually did her best
to divert the conversation into another channel.
He would beguile her to take moonlight walks with him
on the bridge, fbr the sole purpose, as it seemed, of pouring
inito her ear the longest of' his ballads: he would lead her
a aay to sequestered rustic seats, whence the rush of the surf
to the sands was heard soft and soothing; and when he had
her all to himself, and the sea lay before them, and the scented shade of gardens spread round, and the tall shelter of cliffs
rose behind them, he would pull out his last batch of sonnets,
and read them in a voice tremulous with emotion. He did
not seem to know, that though they might be rhyme, they
were not poetry. It appeared by Shirley's downcast eye and
disturbed face that she knew it, and felt heartily mortified by
the single foible of this good and amiable gentleman.
Often she tried. as gently as might be, to wean him from




418                   SHIRLLY.
this fanatic worship of the Muses: it was his mon;omrnal —
Dn all ordinary subjects he was sensible enough; and fain
was she to engage him in ordinary topics. He questioned hey
sometimes about his place at Nunncly; she was but too happy to answer his interrogatories at length: she never wearied
of describing the antique Priory, the wild sylvan park, the
hoary church and hamlet; nor did she fail to counsel him to
come down  and gather his tenantry about him in his ancesaral halls.
Somewhat to her surprise, Sir Philip il1owed her advice
ri the letter; and actually, toward the close of September,
nrrived at the Priory.
I-e soon made a call at Fieldhead, and his first visit was
inot his last: he said —when he had achieved the round of the
neighborhood-that under no roof had he found such pleasant.helter as beneath the massive oak-beams of the gray manornouse of Briarfield: a cramped., modest dwelling enough, comneared with his own-but he liked it.
Presently, it did not suffice to sit with Shirley in her paneied pailor, where others came and went, and where he could
rarely find a quiet moment to show hei the latest production
of his fertile muse; he must have her out among the pleasant
pastures, and lead her by the still waters.  Tete-a-t6te rambhngs she shunned; so lie made parties for her to his own
grounds, his glorious forest; to remoter scenes-woods severed
by the Wharfe, vales watered by the Aire.
duch assiduity covered Miss Keeldar with distinction. Her
uncle's prophetic soul anticipated a splendid future: he already scented the time afar off when, with nonchalant air,
and left foot nursed on his right knee, he should be able to
make dashingly-familiar allusion to his " nephew the baronet."
Now, his niece dawned upon him no longer "a mad girl,"
but a " most sensible woman."  He termed her, in confidential dialogues with Mrs. Sympson, " a truly superior person:
peculiar, bLt. very clever." I-Ie treated her with exceeding
deference; rose reverently to open and shut doors for her;
reddened his lace, and gave himself headaches, with stooping
to pick up gloves, handkerchiefs, and other loose property,
whereof Shirley usually held but insecure tenure.  IHe would
cut mysterious joires about the superiority of woman's wit over
man's wisdomn; commence obscure apologies for the blunder




THE  FIRST  BLUE' STOCKING.                419
ing mistake he had committed respecting the generalship, the
tactics, of " a personage not a hundred miles from Fieldhead:'
in short, he seemed elate as any " midden-cock on pattens."
Hiis niece viewed his maneuvers, and received his innuenr
does with phlegm: apparently, she did not above half comrn
prehend to what aim they ten.led.  When plainly charged
with being the preferred of the baronet, she said, she believed
he did like her, and for herpkart she liked him: she had never
thought a man of nI; -the only son of a proud, fond mother
-the only brother of doting sisters-could have so much goodness, and, on the whole, so much sense.
Time proved, indeed, that Sir Philip liked her.  Perhaps
he had found in her that "curious charm" noticed by Mr.
Hall.  He sought her presence more and more; and, at last,
with a fiequency that attested it had become to him an indispensable stimulus. About this time strange feelings hovered
round Fieldhead; restless hopes and haggard anxieties haunted some of its rooms. There was an unquiet wandering of
some of the inmates among the still fields round the mansion;
there was a sense of expectancy that kept the nerves strained.
One thing seemed clear. Sir Philip was not a man to be
despised: he was amiable; if not highly intellectual, he was
intelligent.  Miss Keeldar could not affirm of' him-what she
had so bitterly affirmed of Sam Wynne-that his feelings wern'
blunt, his tastes coarse, and his manners vulgar. There was
sensibility in his nature; there was a very real, if not a very
discriminating, love of the arts; there was the English gentleman in all his deportment: as to his lineage and wealth,
both were, of course, far beyond her claims.
His appearance had at first elicited some laughing, though
not ill-natured, remarks from the merry Shirley. It was boyish; his features were plain and straight; his hair sandy;
his stature insignificant.  But she soon checked her sarcasm
on this point; she would even fire up if any one else made
uncomplimentary allusion thereto. He had " a pleasing countenance," she affirmed; "and there was that in his heart
which was better than three Roman noses, than the locks of
Absalom, or the proportions of Saul." A spare and rare shaft
she still reserved for his unfortunate poetic propensity; but
even here she would tolerate no irony save her own.
in short, matters had reached a point which seemed full]y




420                   SHIRLEY.
tc warrant an observation made about this time by Mr. Yorke
to the tutor, Louis.
" Yond' brother Robert of yours seems to me to be either a
fool or a madman.  Two months ago, I could have sworn he
had the game all in his own hands; and there he runs the
country, and quarters himself up in London for weeks together, and by the time he comes back he'll find himself checkmated.  Louis,'There is a tide in the affairs of men, which,
taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; but, once let slip, never
returns again.' I'd write to Robert, if I were you, and remind him of that."
" Robert had views on Miss Keeldar 2" inquired Louis, as
if the idea were new to him.
"Views I suggested to him myself, and views he might
lhave realized, for she liked him."
" As a neighbor?"
"As more than that.  I have seen her change countenance
and color at ulh? mere mention of his name. Write to the lad,
I say, and tell him;> come home.  He is a finer gentleman
t1han this bit of a baronet, after all."
"Does it not strike you, Mr. Yorke, that for a mere penniless adventurer to aspire to a rich woman's hand is presumptuous-contemptible."
" Oh! if you are for high notions, and double-refined sentiment, I've naught to say.  I'm  a plain, practical man my.
self; and if Robert is willing to give up that royal prize to a
lad-rival-a puling slip of aristocracy-I am quite agreeable.
At his age, in his place, with his inducements, I would have
acted differently. Neither baronet, nor duke, nor prince should
have snatched my sweet-heart from me without a struggle.
lout you tutors are such solemn chaps: it is almost like speaking to a parson to consult with you."
Flattered and fawned upon as Shirley was just now, it appeared she was not absolutely spoiled-that her better nature
did not quite leave her. Universal report had indeed ceased
to couple her name with that of Moore, and this silence seemed sanctioned by her own apparent oblivion of the absentee;
but that she had not quite forgotten him-that she still regarded him, if not with love, yet with interest-seemed proved
by the increased attention which at this juncture of atffiirs a




THE FIRST BLUE STOCKING.                  421
sudden attack of illness induced her to show that tutor-brothei
of Robert's, to whom she habitually bore herself with strange
alternations of cold reserve and docile respect: now sweepilng
past him in 1ll the dignity of the moneyed heiress and prospective Lady Nunnely, and anon accosting him as abashed
schcol-girls are wont to accost their stern professors: bridling
her neck of ivory, and curling her lip of carmine, if he encountered her glance, one minute; and the next submitting
to the grave rebuke of his eye, with as much contrition as if
he had the power to inflict penalties in case of contumacy.
Louis Moore had perhaps caught the fever, which for a
few days laid him low, in one of the poor cottages of the district, which he, his lame pupil, and Mr. Hall, were in the
habit of visiting together. At any rate he sickened, and after
opposing to the malady a taciturn resistance for a day or two,
was obliged to keep his chamber.
He lay tossing on his thorny bed one evening, Henry, who
would not quit him, watching faithfully beside him, when a
tap —too light to be that of Mrs. Gill or the housemaid-summoned young Sympson to the door.
" How is Mr. Moore to-night?" asked a low voice from the
dark gallery.
" Come in and see him yourself."
" Is he asleep?"
" I wish he could sleep. Come and speak to him, Shirley."
" I-Ie would not like it."
But the speaker stepped in, and H-lenry, seeing her hesitate
on the threshold, took her hand and drew her to the couch.
The shaded light showed Miss Keeldar's form but imperfeectly, yet it revealed her in elegant attire. There was a
p trty assembled below, including Sir Philip Nunnely; the
ladies were now in the drawing-room, and their hostess had
stolen from them to visit Henry's tutor: Her pure white
dress, her fair arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold
eircling her throat, and quivering on her breast, glistened
strangely amid the obscurity of the sick-room. Her mien wanv
chastened and pensive: she spoke gently.
"Mr. Moore, how are you to-night?"
"' I have not been very ill, and am now better."
"  heard that you corrplain.ed of thirst: I have brought
you some grapes: can you taste one?"




422                   SHIRLEY.
"No. but I thank you for remembering m'9
" Just one."
From the rich cluster that filled a small basket held in lie:
hand, she severed a berry and offered it to lips. I1e shook his
head and turned aside his flushed face.
" But what then can I bring you instead?  You have no
wish for fruit; yet I see that your lips are parched.  What
beverage do you prefer?"
" Mrs. Gill supplies me with toast and water: I like it best."
Silence fell fobr some minutes.
" Do you suffer?  tlave you pain?"
"Very little."
"T That made you ill?"
Silence.
" I wonder what caused this fever?  To what do you attribute it?"
"Miasma perhaps-malaria.  This is autumn, a season
fertile in fevers."
"I hear you often visit the sick in Briarfield, and Nunnely
too, with Mr. Hall: you should be on your guard: temerity
is not wise."
",That reminds me, Miss Keeldar, that perhaps you had
better not enter this chamber, or come near this couch. I do
not believe my illness is infectious: I scarcely fear (with a
sort of smile) y/ou will take it; but why should you run even
the shadow of a risk?  Leave me."
" Patience; I will go soon; but I should like to do something for you before I depart-any little service-"
" They will miss you below."
"No, the gentlemen are still at table."
" They will not linger long: Sir Philip Nunnely is no winebibber, and I hear him just now pass from the dining-room to
the drawing-room."
"It is a servant."
"It is Sir Philip, I know his step."
"Your hearing is acute."
"It is never dull, and the sense seems sharpened at present.
Sir Philip was here to tea last night. I heard you sing to
him some song which he had brought you.  I heard him,
when he took his departure at eleven o'clock, call you out oi
to the pavement. to look at the evening star."




THE FIRST BLUE ST3OCKING.                423
"You must be nervously sensitive."
" I heard him kiss your hand."
"Impossible I"
"No; my chamber is ove-: ne hall, the window just above
the front door; the sash was a little raised, for I felt feverish'
you stood ten minutes with him on the steps: I heard your
discourse, every word, and I heard the salute.  Henry, give
me some water."
"Let me give it him."
But he half rose to take the glass from young Sympson,
and declined her attendance.
" And can I do nothing?"
"Nothing; for you can not guarantee me a night,'s peaceful rest, and it is all I at present want."
"' You do not sleep well?"
" Sleep has left me."
" Yet you said you were not very ill."
"I am often sleepless when in high health."
" If I had power, I would lap you in the most placid slumber; quite deep and hushed, without a dream."
"Blank annihilation! I do not ask that."
"xWith dreams of all you most desire."
" Monstrous delusions! The sleep would be delirium, tne
waking, death."
"Your wishes are not so chimerical: you are no visionaryv 
"Miss Keeldar, I suppose you think so; but my character
is not, perhaps, quite as legible to you as a page of the last
new novel might be."
"That is possible.... But this sleep: I should
like to woo it to your pillow-to win for you its favor. If I
took a book and sat down, and read some pages-   1:I can
well spare half an hour."
" Thank you, but I will not detain you."
"I would read softly."
" It would not do. I am too feverish and excitable to beai
a soft, cooing, vibrating voice close at my ear. You had bet-;
ter leave me."
" Well, I will go."
" And no good-night'"
"Yes, sir, y;s. Mr. Moore, good-night."  (Exit Shirley )




421                   SI1IRLEl.
"Henry, my boy, go to bed now: it is time you had scine
repose."
" Sir, it would please me to watch at your bed-side all night.'
" Nothing less called for: I am getting better: there, go'
"Give me your blessing, sir."
"God bless you, nmy best pupil!"
" You never call me your dearest pupil "'
"No, nor ever shlall."
Possibly Miss Keeldar resented her forrmer teacher's reje,
tion of her courtesy; it is certain she did not repent the offer
of it. Often as her light step traversed the gallery in the
course of a day, it did not again pause at his door; nor did
her " cooing, vibrating voice" disturb a second time the hush
of the sick-room. A sick-room, indeed, it soon ceased to be;
Mr. Moore's good constitution quickly triumphed over his indisposition: in a few days he shook it off, and resumed his
duties as tutor.
That "auld lang syne" had still its authority both with
preceptor and scholar was proved by the manner in which he
sometimes promptly passed the distance she usually maintained between them, and put down her high reserve with a
firm, quiet hand.
One afternoon the Sympson family were gone out to take a
carriage airing.  Shirley, never sorry to snatch a reprieve
from their society, had remained behind, detained by business,
as she said.  The business-a little letter-writing-was soon
dispatched after the yard-gates bad closed on the carriage:
M.iss Keeldar betook herself to the garden.
It was a peaceful autumn day.  The gilding of the Indian
summer mellowed the pastures far and wide. The russet
woods stood ripe to be stripped, but were yet full of leaf.
The purple of the heath-bloom, faded but not withered, tinged
the hills. The beck wandered down to the Hollow, through
a silent district; no wind followed its course, or haunted its
woody borders. Fieldhead gardens bore the seal of gentle decay. On the walks, swept that morning, yellow leaves had
fluttered down again.  Its time of flowers, and even of fruits,
twas over; but a scantling of apples enriched the trees; only
a blossom here and there expanded, pale and delicate, amid a
knot cf faded leaves.




THE FIRST BLUE STOCKING.                 425
These single flowers-the last of their:ace-Shirley culled
is, she wandered thoughtfully among the beds.  She was fastening into her girdle a hueless and scentless nosegay, when
Henry Sympson called to her as he came limping fiom the'louse.
" Shirley, Mr. Moore would be glad to see you in the school
room, and to hear you read a little French, if you have no
more urgent occupation."
The messenger delivered his commission very simply, as if
it were a mere matter of course.
"Did Mr. Moore tell you to say that?"
" Certainly: why not?  And now, do come, and let us
once more be as we were at Sympson Grove.  We used to
have pleasant school-hours in those days."
Miss Keeldar, perhaps, thought that circumstances were
changed since then; however, she made no remark, but, after a little reflection, quietly followed Henry.
Entering the school-room, she inclined her head with a decent obeisance, as had been her wont in former times; she
removed her bonnet, and hung it up beside Henry's cap.
Louis Moore sat at his desk, turning the leaves of a book,
open before him, and marking passages with his pencil; he
just moved, in acknowledgment of her courtesy, but did not rise.
"You proposed to read to me a few nights ago," said he
"I could not hear you then; my attention is now at youi
service. A little renewed practice in French may not be unprofitable: your accent, I have observed, begins to rust."
" What book shall I take?"
"1 Here are the posthumous works of St. Pierre. Read a
few pages of the' Fragments de l'Amazone.' "
She accepted the chair which he had placed in readiness
near his own-the volume lay on his desk —there was but
one between them; her sweeping curls drooped so low as to
hide the page from him.
"Put back your hair," he said.
For one moment Shirley looked not quite certain whether
she would obey the request or disregard it: a flicker of her
eye beamed furtive on the professor's face; perhaps if he had
been looking at her harshly or timidly, or if one undecided
line had marked his countenance, she would have rebelled,
and the lesson had ended ther.I and then; but he was only




426                   S 1S  I R LE~Y.
awaiting her compliance —as calm  as marble, and as cool
She threw the veil of tresses behind her ear.  It was well hes
face owned an agreeable outline, and that her cheek lossessed
the polish and the roundness of early youth, or, thus robbed
of a softening shade, the contours might have lost their grace.
But what mattered that in the present society?  Neither
Calypso nor Eucharis cared to fascinate Mentor.
She began to read. The language had become strange to
her tongue; it faltered: the lecture flowed unevenly, impeded
by hurried breath, broken by Anglicized tones. She stopped.
"I can't do it. Read me a paragraph, if you please, Mr.
Moore.'
What he read she repeated: she, caught his accent in three
minutes.
"Tres bien," was the approving comment at the close of
the piece.
" C'est presque le Frangais rattrape, n'est-ce pas 3"
" You could not write French as you once could, I dare
say I"
" Oh! no. I should make strange work of my concords
now.,"
"You could not compose the devoir of'La Premiero
Femme Savante 3"' Do you still remember that rubbish?"
" Every line."
"I doubt you."
"I will engage to repeat it word for word."
"You would stop short at the first line."
"Challenge me to the experiment."
"I challenge you."
He proceeded to recite the following: he gave it in French,
but we must translate, on pain of being unintelligible to some
readers. a
" And it came to pass when men began to multiply on the face of the
earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw
the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives
of all which they chose."
This was in the dawn of time, before the morning stars
were set, and while they yet sang together.
The epoch is so remote, the mists and dewy gray of matin
twilighft veil it with so vague an obscurity, that all distinct




TIlE FIRST  BLUE STOCKING.                427
feature of custom, all clear line of locality, evade perception
and baffle research.  It must suffice to know that the world
then existed; that men peopled it; that man's nature, with
its passions, sympathies, pains, and pleasures, informed the
planet and gave it soul.
A certain tribe colonized a certain spot on the globe: of
what race this tribe —unknown; in what region that spotuntold. We usually think of the East when we refer to transactions of that date; but who shall declare that there was
no life in the WMest, the South, the North?  WVhat is to disprove that this tribe, instead of camping under palm-groves
in Asia, wandered beneath island oak-woods rooted in our
own seas of Europe?
It is no sandy plain, nor any circumscribed and scant oasis
I seem to realize.  A forest valley, with rocky sides and brown
profundity of shade, formed by tree crowding on tree, descends
deep before me.  Here, indeed, dwell human beings, but so
few, and in alleys so thick-branched and overarched, they are
neither heard nor seen. Are they savage?-doubtless. They
live by the crook and the bow: half shepherds, half hunters,
their flocks wander wild as their prey. Are they happy? no,
not more happy than we are at this day.  Are they good?
no, not better than ourselves: their nature is our naturehuman both.  There is one in this tribe too often miserable
~-a child bereaved of both parents.  None cares for this
child: she is fed sometimes, but oftener forgotten: a hut rarely receives her; the hollow tree and chill cavern are her
home.  Forsaken, lost, and wandering, she lives more with
the wild beast and bird than with her own kind.- Hunger
and cold are her comrades: sadness hovers over, and solitude
besets her round.  Unheeded and unvalued, she should die;
but she both lives and grows: the green wilderness nurses
her, and becomes to her a mother; feeds her on juicy berry,
on saccharine root and nut.
There is something in the air of this clime which fosters
life kindly: there must be something, too, in its dews, which
heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate no
passion, no sense; its temperature tends to harmony; its
breezes, you would say, bring down from heaven the germ
of pure thought, and purer feeling.  Not grotesquely fantastic are the farims of cliff and foliage; net violently vivid thJ
T




428                   SHIRLEY.
coloring of flower and bird: in all the grandeur of these fol.
ests there is repose; in all their freshness there is tenderness.
The gentle charm vouchsafed to flower and tree-bestowed
on deer and dove-has not been denied to the human nursling.
All solitary, she has sprung up straight and graceful.  Nature
cast her features in a fine mold; they have matured in their
pure, accurate first lines, unaltered by the shocks of disease.
No fierce dry blast has dealt rudely with the surface of her
frame; no burning sun has crisped or withered her tresses:
her form gleams ivory-white through the trees; her hair flows
plenteous, long, and glossy; her eyes, not dazzled by vertical
fires, beam in the shade large and open, and full and dewy:
above those eyes, when the breeze bares her forehead, shines
an expanse fair and ample-a clear, candid page, whereon
knowledge, should knowledge ever come, might write a golden
record. You see in the desolate young savage nothing vicious
or vacant; she haunts the wood harmless and thoughtful,
though of what one so untaught can think it is not easy to
divine.
On the evening of one summer day, before the Flood, being
utterly alone-fbr she had lost all trace of her tribe, who had
wandered leagues away, she linew not where-she vent up
from the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night arrive. A
crag, overspread by a tree, was her station: the oak-roots,
turfed and mossed, gave a seat; the oak-boughs, thick-leaved,
wove a canopy.
Slow and grand the Day withdrew, passing in purple fire,
and parting to the farewell of a wild, low chorus from the
woodlands.  Then Night entered, quiet as death: the wind
fell, the birds ceased singing. Now every nest held happy
mates, and hart and hind slumbered blissfully safe in their lair
The girl sat, her body still, her soul astir: occupied, how
ever, rather in feeling than in thinking-in wishing, than hop
ing-in imagining, than projecting.  She felt the world, the
sky, the night, boundlessly mighty.  Of all things, herself
seemed to herself the center-a small, forgotten atcmn of life,
a spark of soul, emitted inadvertent from the great creative
source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart of a
black hollow.  She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never neededat star in an else starless firmament-which nor shepherd, nor




TIIHE FIRST  BLUE STOCKING.              429
iwanderer, nor sage, nor priest, tracked as a guide, or read as
a prophecy. Could this be, she demanded, when the flame
of her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true,
and real, and potent; when something within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly asserted a God-given strength, for which
it insisted she should find exercise?
She gazed abroad on Heaven and Evening: Heaven ant
Evening gazed back on her.  She bent down, searching bank
hill, river, spread dim below. All she questioned responded
by oracles: she heard-she was impressed; but she could not
understand. Above her head she raised her hands joined
together.
" Guidance-help-comfort -come!" was her cry.
There was no voice, nor any that answered.
She waited, kneeling, steadfastly looking up. Yonder sky
was sealed: the solemn stars shone alien and remote.
At last, one over-stretched chord of her agony slacked: she
thought Something above relented: she felt as if Something
far round drew nigher: she heard as if Silence spoke. There
was no language, no word, only a tone.
Again-a fine, full, lofty tone, a deep, soft sound, like a
storm whispering, made twilight undulate.
Once more, profounder, nearer, clearer, it rolled harmonious.
Yet, again-a distinct voice passed between Heaven and
Eairth.
E' va!"
If Eva were not this woman's name, she had none,  She
rose.
"Here am I.'
"Eva!"
"Oh, Night (it can be but Night that speaks)! I am here!"'
The voice, descending, reached Earth.
"Eva!"
"Lord!" she cried, "behold thine handmaid!"
She had her religion: all tribes held some creed.
"I come: a Comforter!"
"Lord, come quickly!"
The Evening flushed full of hope: the Air panted; the
Mloon-rising before-ascended large, but her light showed
no shape.
" Lean toward nce, Eva  Enter my arms; repose thus."




430                   SHIRLE Y.' hus I lean, O Invisible, but felt! And what a.r thou?"Eva,- I have brought a living draught from  IHeavenl.
Daughter of Man, drink of my cup!"
" I drink-it is as if sweetest dew visited my lips in a full
i;urrent.  My arid heart revives: my affliction, is lightened,
my strait and struggle are gone. And the night changes:
the wood, the hill, the moon, the wide sky-all change ]"
" All change, and forever. I take from thy vision, dark
ness: I loosen from thy faculties, fetters: I level in thy path,
obstacles: I, with my presence, fill vacancy: I claim as mine
the lost atom of life: I take to myself the spark of soulburning, heretofore, forgotten!"
"Oh, take me! Oh, claim me! This is a god."
" This is a Son of God: one who feels himself' in the potr
tion of life that stirs you: he is suffered to reclaim his own,
and so to foster and aid that it shall not perish hopeless."
" A Son of God! Am I indeed chosen F"
" Thou only in this land. I saw thee that thou wert fair.
i knew thee that thou wert mine. To me it is given to rescue, to sustain, to cherish, mine own. Acknowledge in me
that Seraph, on earth, named Genius."
"My glorious Bridegroom! True Dayspring from on high!
All I would have, at last I possess.  I receive a revelati~-..
The dark hint, the obscure whisper, which have haunted me
i'rom  childhood, are interpreted.  Thou art He I sought.
God-born, take me, thy bride 1"
" Unhumbled, I can take what is mine.  Did I not giver
from the altar the very flame which lit Eva's being'? Comre
Again into the heaven whence thou wert sent."
That Presence, invisible, but mighty, gathered her in like
a lamb to the fold; that voice, soft but all-pervading, vibrated through her heart like music.  Her eye received no image;
and yet a sense visited her vision and her brain as of the se.
renity of stainless air, the power of sovereign seas, the majesty
of marching stars, the energy of colliding- elements, the rooted
endurance of hills wide-based, and,; above all, as of the luster
of heroic beauty rushing victorious on the BNight, vanquishing
its shadows like a diviner Sun.
Such was the bridal-hour of Genius and HIumanity. Who
shall rehearse the tale of their after-union?  Who shall depict its bliss and bale??"Who shall tell how Ile, betwveen




THE  FIRST  BLUE STOCKING.               431
whom and the Woman God put enmity, forged deadly plots
to break the bond or defile its purity?  Who shall record the
long strife between Serpent and Seraph? How still the Father of Lies insinuated evil into good-pride into wisdomgrossness into glory —pain into bliss-poison into passion?
I-Iow the "dreadless Angel" defied, resisted, and repelled?
I-Iow, again and again, he refined the polluted cup, exalted
the debased emotion, rectified the perverted impulse, detected
the lurking venom, baffled the frontloss temptation-purified,
justified, watched, and withstood?  IHow, by his patience, by
his strength, by that unutterable excellence he held from God
— his Origin-this faithful Seraph fought for Humanity a
good fight through Time; and, when Time's course closed.
and Death was encountered at the end, barring with fleshless
armI the portals of Eternity, how Genius still held close his
dying bride, sustained her through the agony of the passage,
bore her triumphant into his own home-Heaven; restored
her, redeemned, to Jehovah-her Maker; and at last, before
Angel and Archangel, crowned her with the crown of Immortality?
Who shall, of these things, write the chronicle?
"I never could correct that composition," observed Shirley,
as Moore concluded.  "Your censor-pencil scored it with
condemnatory lines, whose signification I strove vainly to
fathom."
She had taken a crayon from the tutor's desk, and was
drawing little leaves, fragments of pillars, broken crosses, on
the margin of the book.
" French may be half-forgotten, but the habits of the French
lesson are retained, I see," said Louis: " my books would now,
as erst, be unsafe with you.  My newly-bound St. Pierre would
soon be like my Racine: Miss Keeldar, her mark-traced on
every page."
Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.
"Tell me what were the faults of that devoir?" she asked.
"Were they grammati al errors, or did you object to the substance?"
"I never said that the lines I drew were indications of
faults at all. You would have it that such was the caset
and I refrained from contradiction."




432                   SHIRLEY.
" What else did they lenote l"
" No matter now."
" MIr. Moore," cried Henry, "make Shi.ley repeat simre of1
the pieces she used to say so well by heart."
"If I ask for any, it will be' Le Cheval Dompte,'" said
Moore, trimming with his penknife the pencil Miss Keeldal
had worn to a stump.
She turned aside her head; the neck, the clear cheek, forsaken by their natural veil, were seen to flush warm.
"Ah! she has not forgotten, you see, sir," said Henry, exultant.  " She knows how naughty she was."
A smile, which Shirley would not permit to expand, made
her lip tremble; she bent her face, and hid it half with her
arms, half in her curls, which, as she stooped, fell loose
again.
" Certainly, I was a rebel!" she answered.
"A rebel!" repeated Henry.  "Yes; you and papa had
quarreled terribly, and you set both him and mamma, and Mrs.
Plyor, and every body, at defiance: you said he had insulted
you"He had insulted me," interposed Shirley.
"And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove directly. Yeou
packed your things up, and papa threw them out of your
trunk; mamma cried-Mrs. Pryor cried; they both stood
wringing their hands begging you to be patient, and you knelt
on the floor, with your things and your upturned box before
you, looking, Shirley-looking —why, in one of your passions.
Your features, in such passions, are not distorted; they are
fixed, but quite beautiful: you scarcely look angry, only resolute, and in a certain haste; yet one feels that, at such times,
an obstacle cast across your path would be split as with light
ning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr. Moore."
"Enough, Henry."
"No: it is not enough. I hardly know how Mr. Moore
managed, except that I recollect he suggested to papa that
agitation would bring on his gout; and then he spoke quietly to the ladies, and got them away; and afterward he said
to you, Miss Shirley, that it was of no use talking or lecturing
now, but that the tea-things were just brought into the schoolroom, and he was very thirsty, and he would be glad if you
would leave your packing for the present and come and rmaka




THE ]IRST  BLUE STOCKING.                433
a cup of tea for him  and me. You came: you wocld not
talk at first; but soon you softened and grew cheerful.  Mr
Moore began to tell us about the Continent, the war, and
Bonaparte; subjects we were both fond of listening to.
After tea he said we should neither of us leave him that everning: he would not let us stray out of his sight, lest we should
again get into mischief. We sat one on each side of him;
we were so happy. I never passed so pleasant an evening.
The next day he gave you, missy, a lecture of an hour, and
wound it up by marking you a piece to learn in Bossuet as a
punishment-lesson -' Le Cheval Dompte.' You learned it
instead of packing up, Shirley. We heard no more of your
running away.  iMr. Moore used to.teaze you on the subject
fobr a year afterward."
" She never said a lesson with greater spirit," subjoined
Moore.  "She then, for the first time, gave me the treat of
hearing my native tongue spoken without accent by an English -irl."
"She was as sweet as summer-cherries for a month afterward," struck in IHenry; "a good, hearty quarrel always left
Shirley's temper better than it found it."
" You talk of me as if I were not present," observed Miss
Keeldar, who had not yet lifted her face.' Are you sure you ag'e present " asked Moore: "there
have been moments since my arrival here, when 1 have been
tempted to inquire of the lady of Fieldhead if she knew what
had become of my former pupil?"
"She is here now."
"I see her, and humble enough; but I would neither advise Harry, nor others, to believe too implicitly in the humility
which one moment can hide its blushing face like a modest
little child, and the next lift it pale and lofty as a marble
Juno."
" One mran in times of old, it is said, ilnparted vitality to
the statue he had chiseled.  Others may have the contrary
gift of turning life to stone."
Moore paused on this observation before he replied to it.
His look, at once struck'and meditative, said, "A strange
phrase: what may it mean "  He turned it over iln his mind,
with thought deep and slow, as some German pondering
metaphysics.




43                    S EIIRLEY'" You mean," he said, at last, "that some inmet inspire ro
pugnance, and so chill the kind heart."
"Ingenious!" responded Shirley.  "If the interpretation
oleases you, you are welcome to hold it valid.  I don't
And with that she raised her head, lofty in look, and statuelike in hue, as Louis had described it.
" Behold the metamorphosis!" he said: "scarce imagined
ere it is realized: a lowly nymph develops to an inaccessible
goddess.  But Henry must not be disappointed of his recita;
tion, and Olympia will deign to oblige him.  Let us begin."
" I have forgotten the very first line."
" Which I have not., M.iy memory, if a slow, is a retenLive one. I acquire deliberately both knowledge and liking:
the acquisition grows into my brain, and the sentiment into
my breast; and it is not as the rapid springing produce which,
having no root in itself, flourishes verdurous enough for a time,
but too soon falls withered away.  Attention, Henry! Miss
Keeldar consents to favor you.'Voyez ce Cheval ardent et
impetueux,' so it commences."
Miss Keeldar did consent to make the effort; but she soon
topped.
" Unless I heard the whole repeated, I can not continue;t," she said.
"Yet it was quickly learned,'soon gained, soon gone,' "
moralized the tutor.  He recited the passage deliberately, accurately, with slow, impressive emphasis.
Shirley, by degrees, inclined her ear as he went on. Her
face, befobre turned from him, -returned toward him.  When
he ceased, she took the word up as if from his lips: she took
his very tone; she seized his very accent; she delivered the
periods as he had delivered them: she reproduced his manner,
his pronunciation, his expression.
It was now her turn to petition.
" Recall'Le Songe d'Athalie,'" she entreated, " and say
it."
He said it for her; she took it from him; she found lively
excitement in the pleasure of making his language her own:
she asked for further indulgence; all the old school-pieces
were revived, and with them Shirley's old school-days.
He had gone through some of the best passages of Raciae




TIlE  FIRST  BLUE  STOCKING.                    435
and Corneille, and then had heard the echo of his own deep
tones in the girl's voice, that modulated itself faithfully on
i;.s: "Le Chene et le LRoseau," that most beautiful of La
Fontaine's fables, had been recited, well recited by the tutor,
and the pupil had animatedly availed herself of the lesson.
Perhaps a simultaneous feeling seized them  now, that their
enthusiasm had kindled to a glow, which the slight fuel ofi'
French poetry no longer sufficed to feed; perhaps they longed for a trunk of English oak to be thrown as a Yule log to
the devouring flame.  Moore observed,
"And these are our best pieces!  And we have nothing
more dramatic, nervous, natural!"*
And then he smiled and Nwas silent.  His whole nature
Remember, reader, that the modern French school of poetry (such
as it is) was yet unknown: Lamartine, and Victor Hugo, and Mille.
voye had their rhymes and their renown to make. Otherwise Louis
Moore might partly have satisfied the longing of his strong lungs and
large heart by demanding, in his deepest tone:
" Quels, soent ces bruits sourds?
-Ecoutez vers l'onde
Cette voix profonde,
Qui pleure toujours,
Et qui toujours gronde.
Quoiqu'un son plus clai
lParfobis l'interrompe,
Le vent de la mer
Souffle dans sa trompe."
Or hn might have reveled in the rude vigor of Barbier:
" O Corse A cheveux plats, que la France 6tait bllo
Au grand soleil de Messidor!
C'6tait une cavale indomptable et rebelle
Sans frein d'acier ni rines l'or.
Une jument sauvage, A la croupe rustique
Furnant encore du sang des rois,
Mais fiere, et d'un pied libre heurtant le sol antiqte,
Libre, pour la premiere fois.
"Jamais aucune main n'avait passc sur elle
Pour la fletrir et l'Gr:srager,
Jamais ses larges 0Tanes l'avaient porte la selle
Ni le harnais de l'etranger.
Tout son poil etait vierge, et belle, vagabonde
L'ceil haut, la croupe en mouvement,
fur ses jarrets dresses, elle effrayait le monde
Dn bruit de son hennissement."
T*




436                  SHIRLEY
seemed serenely alight: he stood on the heaith, leaning his
elbow on the mantle-piece, musing not unblissfully.
Twilight was closing on the diminished autumn day: the
school-room windows-darkened with creeping plants, from
which no high October winds had as yet swept the sere foliage-admitted scarce a gleam of sky; but the fire gave light
enough to talk by.
And now Louis Moore addressed his pupil in French; and
she answered, at first, with laughing hesitation and in broken
phrase: Moore encouraged while he corrected her; Henry
joined in the lesson; the two scholars stood opposite the master, their arms round each other's waists: Tartar, Ewho long
since had craved and obtained admission, sat sagely in the
center of the rug, staring at the blaze which burst fitful from
morsels of coal among the red cinders: the group were happy
enough, but"Pleasures are like poppies spread;
You seize the flower-its bloom is shed."
The dull, rumbling sound of wheels was heard on the pavement in the yard.
"It is the carriage returned," said Shirley; " and dinner
must be just ready, and I am not dressed."
A servant came in with Mr. Moore's candle and tea; for
the tutor and his pupil usually dined at luncheon time.
"Mr. Sympson and the ladies are returned," she said, " and
-Sir Philip Nunnely is with them."
"How you did start, and how your hand trembled, ShlrIey!" said Henry, when the maid had closed the shutter and
was gone  " But I know why-don't you, Mr. Moore?  1
know what papa intends. He is a little, ugly man, that Sir
Philip: I wish he had not come: I wish sisters and all of
them had stayed at De Walden Hall to dine.  Shirley should
once more have made tea for you and me, Mr. Moore, and
we would have had a happy evening of it."
Moore was locking up his desk, and putting away his St,
Pierre —" That was your plan-was it, my boy?"
"Don't you approve it, sir?"
"I approve nothing Utopian   Look Life in its iron face 
stare Reality out of its brassy countenance.  Make the tea,
flenry; I shall be back in a minute."
HIe left the room: so did Shirley, by another door




P H (E B E.                  437
CHAPTER XXVIIL
rH(EJBE.
SII:RLEY probably got on pleasantly with Sir Philip that
ervening, for the next morning she came down in one of hei
best moods.
" Who will take a walk with me?" she asked, after breakfast. "Isabella and Gertrude-will vou?"
So rare was such an invitation from MIiss Keeldar to hei
female cousins, that they hesitated before they accepted it.
Their mamma, however, signifying acquiescence in the project,
they fetched their bonnets, and the trio set out.
It did not suit these three young persons to be thrown much
together: Miss Keeldar liked the society of few ladies: indeed, she had a cordial pleasure in that of none except Mrs.
Pryor and Caroline Helstone.  She was civil, kind, attentive
even to her cousins; but still she usually had little to say to
tiem. In the sunny mood of this particular morning, she con.
trived to entertain even the Misses Sympson.  Without deviating from her wonted rule of discussing with them only
ordinary themes, she imparted to these themes an extraordinary interest: the sparkle of her spirit glanced along her phrases.
What made her so joyous?  All the cause must have been
in herself.  The day was not bright; it was dim-a pale,
waning autumn day: the walks through the dun woods were
damp; the atmosphere was heavy, the sky overcast; and yet,
it seemed that in Shirley's heart lived all the light and azure
of Italy, as all its fervor laughed in her gray, English eye.
Some directions necessary to be given to her foreman, John,
delayed her behind her cousins as they neared Fieldhead on
their return; perhaps an interval of twenty minutes elapsed
between her separation from them and her re-entrance into
the house: in the mean time she had spoken to John, and
then she had lingered in the lane at the gate.  A summons
to luncheon called her in: she excused herself from the meal,
and went up stairs.




438          t        S  I  RLE Y.
"Is not Shirley coming to luncheon?" asked Isabeila; "she
said she was hungry."
An hour after, as she did not quit her chamber, one of her
cousins went to seek her there.  She was found sitting at the
foot of the bed, her head resting on her hand: she looked quite
pale, very thoughtful, almost sad.
" You are not ill." was the question put.
" A little sicl," replied Miss Keeldar.
Certainly, she was not a little changed from what she had
been two hours before.
This change, accounted for only by those three words, explained no otherwise; this change —whencesoever springing,
effected in a brief ten minutes-passed like no light summer
cloud.  She talked when she joined her friends at dinner;
talked as usual; she remained with them during the evening;
when again questioned respecting her health, she declared her.
self perfectly recovered: it had been a mere passing faintness;
a momentary sensation, not worth a thought: yet it was felt
there was a difference in Shirley.
The next day-the day —the week-the fortnight after —
this new and peculiar shadow lingered on the countenance, in
the manner of Miss Keeldar.  A strange quietude settled over
her look, her movements, her'very voice. The alteration was
not so marked as to court or permit frequent questioning, yet
it was there, and it would not pass away: it hung over her
like a cloud which no breeze could stir or disperse.  Soon it
became evident that to notice this change was to annoy her.
Fis+t, she shrunk from remark; and, if persisted in, she, with
her own peculiar hauteur, repelled it.  "Was she ill'"  The
reply came with decision,
" I am7 not."
"Did any thing weigh on her mind   h IIad any thing hap
pened to affect her spirits'"
She scornfully ridiculed the idea.  " What did they mean
by spirits?  She had no spirits, black or white, blue or gray,
to affect."
"Something must be the matter —she was so altered,"
"She supposed she had a right to alter at her ease.  She
knew she was plainer: if it suited her to grow ugly, why neeC
others firet themselves on the subject I'"
"There must be a cause for the changer —what was it I:'




- PH(E B E.                   439
She peremptollmy requested to be let alone.
Then she would make every efobrt to appear quite gay, a.nd
sle seemed indignant at herself that she could not perfectly
succeed: brief, self-spurning epithets burst from her lips when
alone: "Fool! Coward!" she would term herself.  "Poltroon!" she would say, "if you must tremble-tremble in secret. Quail where no eye sees you!"
"How dare you"-she would ask herself-" how dare you
show your weakness and betray your imbecile anxieties I
Shake them off: rise above them: if you can not do this
hide them."
And to hide them she did her best.  She once more became
resolutely lively in company. WVhen weary of effort and forced
to relax, she sought solitude: not the solitude of her chamber
-she refused to mope, shut up between four walls-but that
wilIder solitude which lies out of doors, and which she could
chase, mounted on Zoe, her mare.  She took long rides of
halfl a day.  Her uncle disapproved, but he dared not remonstrate: it was never pleasant to face Shirley's anger, even
when she was healthy and gay; but now that her face showed thin, and her large eye looked hollow, there was something
in the darkeningr of that face and kindling of that eye which
touched as well as alarmed.
To all comparative strangers, who, unconscious of the alterations in her spirits, commented on the alteration in her looks,
she had one reply:
" t am perfectly well: I have not an ailment."
And health, indeed, she must have had, to be able to bear
the exposure to the weather she now encountered.  Wet or
fair, calm or storm, she took her daily ride over Stilbro' Moor,
Tartar keeping up at her side, with his wolf-like gallop, long
and untiring.
Twice, three times, the eyes of gossips-those eyes which
are every where: in the closet and on the hill top-noticed
that instead of turning on Rushedge, the top ridge of Stilbro'
Moor, she rode forward all the way to the town. Scouts were
not wanted to mark her destination there; it was ascertained
that she alighted at the door of one Mr. Pearson Hall, a solicitor, related to the Vicar of Nannely: this gentleman and his
ancestors had been the agents of the Keeldar family for genPra~.tionts back: some people affirmed that Miss Keeldar wa.s




440                    SHIRLEY.
become involved in business speculaticns connected with
Hollow's Mill; that she had lost money and was con
strained to mortgage her land: others conjectured that she
was going to be married, and that the settlements were preparing.
Mr. Moore and Henry Sympson were together in the schoolroom: the tutor was waiting for a lesson which the pupil
seemed busied in preparing.
"Henry, make haste! the afternoon is getting on."
"Is it, sir 1"
"Certainly. Are you nearly ready with that lesson?"
N" aO."
" Not nearly ready?"
" I have not construed a line."
Mr. Moore looked up: the boy's tone was rather peculhar.
"The task presents no difficulties, Henry; or if it does,
bring them to me: we will work together."
"Mr. Moore, I can do no work."
"My boy, you are ill."
"Sir, I am not worse in bodily health than usual, but my
heart is full."
"Shut the book. Come hither, Iharry.  Come to the fireside."
Harry limped forward; his tutor placed him a chair: his
lips were quivering, his eyes brimming.  He laid his crutch
on the floor, bent down his head, and wept.
" This distress is not occasioned by physical pain, you say,
Harry?  You have a grief: tell it me."
"'ir, I have such a grief as I never had before. I wish it
could be relieved in some way: I can hardly bear it."
" Who knows but, if we talk it over, we may relieve it.
What is the cause?  Whom does it concern?"
"The cause, sir, is Shirley: it concerns Shirley."
"Does it? You think her changed?"
"All who know  her think her changed: you, too, Air.
Moore."
"Not seriously, no.  I see no alteration but such as a fa.
vorable turn might repair in a few weeks: besides, her own
word must go for something: she says she is well."
"There it is, sir' aP long as she maintained she was well,




P 11 CE BE.                   441
I believed her.  When I was sad out of her sight, I soon re.
covered spirits in her presence. Now —"
"Well, Harry, now    I Has she said any thing to you 3'You and she were together in the garden two hours this morning: I saw her talking, and you listening.  Now, my deat
Harry! if Miss Keeidar has said she is ill, and enjoined you
to keep her secret, do not obey her. For her life's sake, avow
every thing. Speak, my boy!';
"She say she is ill! I believe, sir, if she were dying, she
would smile, and aver'Nothing ails me.'"
"What have you learned, then. WVhat new  circumstance."
"' I have learned that she has just made her will."
"' Made her will!"
The tutor and the pupil were silent.' She told you that 3" asked Moore, when some minutes
had elapsed.
" She told me quite cheerfully: not as an ominous circumn
stance, which I felt it to be. She said I was the only person
besides her solicitor, Pearson Hall, and Mr. Helstone and Mr.
Yorke, who knew any thing about it; and to me, she inti.
nmated, she wished specially to explain its provisions."
" Go on, Harry."
"'Because,' she said, looking down on me with her beautiful eyes-oh! they are beautiful, Mr. Moore! I love them
-I love her! She is my star! Heaven must not claim her!
She is lovely in this world, and fitted fobr this world. Shirley
is not an angel; she is a woman, and she shall live with men.
Seraphs shall not have her! Mr. Moore, if one of the'sons
(if God,' with wings wide and bright as the sky, blue and
sounding as the sea, having seen that she was fair, descended
to claim her, his claim should be withstood-withstood by
me-boy and cripple as I am!"
"Henry Sympson, go on, when I tell you."
"' Because,' she said,' if I made no will, and died before
you, Harry, all my property would go to you; and I do not
intend that it should be so, though your father would like it.
But you,' she said,' will have his whole estate, which is large
-larger than Fieldhead; your sisters will have nothing, so I
have left them some money: though I do not love them, both
tcgether, half' so mru-lh as I love onre lock of your fair hair.'




442                   SHIRLEY.
She said these words, and she called me her'darling,' ant
let me kiss her.  She went on to tell me that she had left
Caroline Helston some money, too; that this manor-house,
with its furniture and books, she had bequeathed to me, as
she did not choose to take the old family place from her own
blood; and that all the rest of her property, amounting to
about twelve thousand pounds, exclusive of the legacies to my
sisters and Miss Ilelstone, she had willed, not to me, seeing I
was already rich, but to a good man, who would make the
best use of it that any human being could do: a man, she
said, that was both gentle and brave, strong and merciful; a
man that might not profess to be pious, but she knew he had
the secret of religion pure and undefiled before God. The
spirit of love and peace was with him: he visited the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and kept himself unspotted
from the world. Then she asked,'Do you approve what I
have done, Harry?' I could not answer-my tears choked
me, as they do now."
Mr. Moore allowed his pupil a moment to contend with
and master his emotion: he then demanded,
" What else did she say?"
"When I had signified my full consent to the conditions o0
her will, she told me I was a generous boy, and she was
proud of  me:' And now,' she added,' in case any thing
should happen, you will know what to say to Malice when
she comes whispering hard things in your ear, insinuating
that Shirley has wronged you; that she did not love you.
You will know that I did love you, Harry; that no sister
could have loved you better, my own treasure.' Mr. Moore,
sir, when i remember her voice, and recall her look, my heart
beats as if it would break its strings. She may go to heaven
before me-if God commands it, she must; but the rest of
my life-and my life will not be long-I am glad of that now
-shall be a straight, quick, thoughtful journey in the path
her step has pressed. I thought to enter the vault of the
Keeldars before her: should it be otherwise, lay my coffin by
Shirley's side."
Moore answered him with a weighty calm, that offered a
strange contrast to the boy's perturbed enthusiasm.
"You are wrong, both of you-you harm each other.  If'outh once fills under the influence of a shadowy terror, ii




PF HUB E                     443
nmlagines there will never be full sunlight agaix —-its first
calamity it fancies will last a lifetime. What more did she
say X Any thing more?"
W'  e settled one or two family points between ourselves"
"I should rather like to know what I"
"But, Mr. Moore, you smile-I could not smile to seo'
Shirley in such a mood."
"My boy, I am neither nervous, nor poetic, nor inexperienced. I see things as they are: you don't, as yet. Tell me
these family points."
" Only, sir, she asked me whether I considered myself most
of a Keeldar or a Sympson; and I answered I was Keeldar
to the core of the heart and to the marrow of the bones. She
said she was glad of it; for, besides her, I was the only Keel.
dar left in England; and then we agreed on some matters'
"Well?"
" Well, sir, that if I lived to inherit my father's estate, and
her house, I was to take the name of' Keeldar, and to make
Fieldhead my residence. Henry Shirley Keeldar I said I
would be called: and I will. Her name and her nianorhouse are ages old, and Symupson and Sympson Grove are of
yesterday."
"Come, you are neither of you going to heaven yet. I
have the best hopes of you both, with your proud distinctions
-a pair of half-fledged eaglets.  Now, what is your inference
from all you have told me. put it into words."
" That Shirley thinks she is going to die."
"She referred to her health?"
"Not once; but I assure you she is wasting: her hands are
growing quite thin, and so is her cheek."
"Does she ever complain to your mother or sisters?"
" Never.  She laughs at them when they question her
Mr. Moore, she is a strange being-so fair and girlish: not a
man-like woman at all —not an Amazon, and yet lifting hei
head above both help and sympathy."
" Do you know where she is now, Henry. Is she in the
house, or riding out?"
"Surely not out, sir-it rains fast."
"True: which, however, is no guarantee that she is not at
this moment cantering over Rushedge. Of late she has nevei
)ermitted weather to be a hinderance to her rides."




444                   SHIRLEY
" You remember, Mir. Moore, how wet and storms' it was
last Wednesday? so wild, indeed, that she would not permit
Zo6i to be saddled; yet the b\.ast she thought too tempestuoun
for her Inare, she herself faced on root: that afternoon she
walked nearly as far as Nunnely.  I asked her, when she
came in, if she was not afraid of taking cold.' Not I,' she
said,' it would be too much good luck for me.  I don't know,
Harry; but the best thing that could happen to me would be
to take a good cold and fever, and so pass off like other Christians.' She is reckless, you see, sir."
"IReckless, indeed! Go and find out where she is; and
if you can get an opportunity of speaking to her, without attracting attention, request her to come here a minute."
"Yes, sir."
Tie snatched his crutch, and started up to go.
" Harry! "
lHe returned.
"Do not deliver the message formally.  Word it as, m
bormer days, you would have worded an ordinary summons to
the school-room."
4' I see, sir;'she will be more likely to obey."
"And, Harry-"
"Sir?"
"I will call you when I want you: till then, you are dis.
pensed from lessons."
He departed.  Mr Moore, left alone, rose from his desk.
" I can be very cool and very supercilious with Henry," he
said.  "I can seem to make light of his apprehensions, and
look down'du haut de ma grandeur' on his youthful ardor.'o hia I can speak as if, in my eyes, they were both chil
dren.  Let me see if I can keep up the same role with her.
I have known the moment when I seemed about to forget it,
when Confusion and Submission seemed about to crush me
with their soft tyranny; when my tongue faltered, almid I have
almost let the mantle drop, and stood in her presence, not
master-no —but something else.  I trust I shall never so
play the fobol: it is well for a Sir Philip Nunnely to redden
when he meets her eye: he may permit himself the indulgence
of submission —he may even without disgrace suffer his hand
to tremble when it touches hers; but if one of her ifarners
were to show himself susceptible and sentimental. he would




H (E B E.                     445
merely prove his need of a strait waistcoat.  So far I have,
always done very well.  She has sat near me, and I have not
shaken-more thant my desk.  I have encountered her looks
and smiles like-why, like a tutor, as I am.  Iler hane d I
never yet touched-never underwent that test.  Her farmer
or her footman I am not-no serf nor servant of hers have I
ever been; but I am poor, and it behooves me to look to my
self-respect-not to compromise an inch of it.  What did she
mean by that allusion to the cold people who petrify flesh to
marble?  It pleased me —I hardly know why-I would not
permit myself to inquire-I never do indulge in scrutiny either
of her language or countenance; foi if I did, I should sometimes forget Common Sense and believe in Romance.  A
strange, secret ecstasy steals through my veins at moments
I'll not encourage-I'll not remember it.  I am resolved, as
long as may be, to retain the right to say with Paul-' I am
not mad, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness.' 
lHe paused-listening.
"Will she come, or will she not come?" he inquired.
"How will she take the message? naively or disdainfully 1
like a child or like a queen? Both characters are in her nature.
" If she comes, what shall I say to her?  How account,
first, fbr the freedom of the request?  Shall I apologize to
her? I could in all humilityr; but would an apology tend to
place us in the positions we ought relatively t> occupy in this
matter?  I mucst keep up the professor, otherwise-I hear a
door." He waited. Many minutes passed.
"She will refuse me. Henry is entreating her to come.
she declines.  My petition is presumption in her eyes: let he)
only come, I can teach her to the contrary.  I would rather
she were a little perverse-it will steel me.  I prefer her
cuirassed in pride, armed with a taunt.  Her scorn startles
me from, my dreams —I stand up myself. A sarcasm from
her eyes or lips puts strength into every nerve and sinew I
have.  S.me step approaches, and not flenry's...."
The. door unclosed; Miss Keeldar came in.  The message,
it appeared, had found her at her needle: she brought her
wvork in her hand.  That day she had not been riding out.
she had evidently passed it quietly.  She wore her neat indoor dress and silk aprcn.  This was no Thalestris fr(!u. taor




446                    SHIRLEY.
fields, but a quiet domestic character from the fire-side.  Mr,
Moore had her at advantage: he should have addressed hey
at once in solemn accents, and with rigid mien; perhaps, he
would, had she looked saucy; but -her air never showed less
of eranerie: a soft kind of youthful shyness depressed her eyeiid and mantled on her cheek.  The tutor stood silent.
She made a full stop between the door and his desk.
" Did you want me, sir?" she asked.
" I ventured, Miss Keeldar, to send for you —that is, to ask
an interview of a few minutes."
She waited: she plyed her needle.
"Well,' sir (not lifting her eyes)-what about?"
" Be seated, first. The subject I would broach is one of
some moment: perhaps I have hardly a right to approach it
it is possible I ought to frame an apology: it is possible no
apology can excuse me. The liberty I have taken arises
from a conversation with Henry.  The boy is unhappy about
your health: all your friends are unhappy on that subject.  It
is of your health I would speak."
" I am quite well," she said briefly.
" Yet changed."
" That matters to none but myself.  We all change."
"Will you sit down?  Formerly, Miss Keeldar, I had
some influence with you-have I any now?  M~ ay I feel that
what I am saying is not accounted positive presumption?"
"Let me read some French, Mr. Moore, or I will even
take a spell at the Latin grammar, and let us proclaim a
truce to all sanitary discussions."
" No-no: it is time there were discussions."
" Discuss away, then, but do not choose me for your text;
I am a healthy subject."
"Do you not think it wrong to affirm and reaffirm, what
is substantially untrue 2"
"I say I am well: I have neither cough, pain, nor fever."
" Is there no equivocation in that assertion? Is it the di.
rect truth?"
"The direct truth."
Louis Moore looked at her earnestly.
"' I can myself," he said, "trace no indications of actual
disease; but why, then, are you altered?"
"dAmn I altered 1"




PH:E BE.                      4,17
"We will try: we will seek a proof:"
" How I"
"I ask, in the first place, do you sleep as ycu ustdf to W'"
"I do not: but it is not because I am ill."
"Have you the appetite you once had?"
"No: but it is not because I am ill."
"You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-cha in!
l:t was my mother's, and is too small to pass the joint of my
little finger.  You have many a time sportively purloined it'
it fitted your forefinger. Try now."
She permitted the test: the ring dropped from the wasted
little hand. Louis picked it up, and reattached it to the chain,
An easy flush colored his brow.  Shirley again said,
i' It is not because I am ill."
" Not only have you lost sleep, appetite, and flesh," proceeded Moore, "but your spirits are always at ebb: besides,
there is a nervous alarm in your eye-a nervous disquiet in
your manner: these peculiarities were not formerly yours."
" Mr. Moore, we will pause here.  You have exactly hit
it: I am nervous.  Now talk of something else.  What wet
weather we have! Steady, pouring rain'"
"You, nervous! Yes: and if Mliss Keeldar is nervous, it
is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let ine look nearer.
The ailment is not physical: I have suspected that. It came
in one moment.  I know the day.  I noticed the change.
Your pain is mental."
"Not at all: it is nothing so dignified-merely nervous.
Oh! dismiss the topic."
"When it is exhausted: not till then.  Nervous alarms
should always be communicated, that they may be dissipated.
I wish I had the gift of persuasion, and could incline you to
speak willingly. I believe confession in your case would be
half equivalent to cure."
"No," said Shirley, abruptly; "'1 wish that were at all
probable; but I am afraid it is not."
She suspended her work a moment.  She was now seated,
Resting her elbow on the table, she leaned her head on her
hand   Mr. Moore looked as if he felt he had at last gained
some footing in this difficult path. She was serious, and in
lier wish was implied an important admission; after that, slal
eO)uld. no longer affirn that nothing, ailed heer.




4418                 S3-II R LF rY.
The tutor allowed her some minutes fbr repose ind reies,
tion ere he returned to the charge: once his lipi moved toe
speak; but he thought better of it, and prolonged the pause
Shirley lifted her eye to his: had he betrayed illjudicious emo.
tion, perhaps obstinate persistence in silence would have been
the result; but he bloked calm, strong, trustworthy.
"' I had better tell you than my aunt," she said, "or than
my cousins, or my uncle: they would all male such a bustle
— and it is that very bustle I dread; the alarm, the flurry,
the eclat: in short, I never liked to be the center of a small
Domestic whirlpool. You can bear a little shock-eh?"
" A great one, if necessary."
Not a muscle of the man's frame moved, and yet his large
heart beat fast in his deep chest. What was she going to tell
him?  Was irremediable mischief done?' Had I thought it right to go to you, I would never have
made a secret of the matter one moment," she continued; "I
would have told at once, and asked advice."' Why was it not right to come to me."
It might be right-I do not mean that; but I could not
do it.  I seemed to have no title to trouble you: the mishap
concerned me only-I wanted to keep it to myself, and people
will not let me.  I tell you, I hate to be an object of worryin(r attention, or a theme for village gossip.  Besides, it may
pass away without result-God knows!"
Moore, though tortured with suspense, did not demand a
quick explanation; he suffered neither gesture, glance, noi
word to betray impatience.  His tranquillity tranquilized
Shirley; his confidence reassured her.
"Great effects may spring firom trivial causes," she remnarked, as she loosened a bracelet from her wrist; then, un.
fastening her sleeve, and partially turning it up,
" Look here, Mr. Moore."
She showed a mark in her white arm; rather a deep, though
healed up indentation: something between a burn and a cut.
"I would not show that to any one in Briarfield but you,
because you can take it quietly."
"Certainly there is nothing in the little mark to shock; its
history will explain."
G" Small as it is, it has taken my sleep away, and made Ilc
hicrvous, thin, and foolish; because, esn accoulnt of that little




Pl H    BE.                  449
tnark, 1 am obliged to look forward to a possibility that has its
terrors."
The sleeve was readjusted; the bracelet replaced.
" Do you know that you try me 2" he said, smiling. " I are
a patient sort of man, but my pulse is quickening."
"Whatever happens, you will befriend me, Mr. Moore.
You will give me the benefit of your self-possession, and not
leave me at the mercy of agitated cowards."
"I make no promise now.  Tell me the tale, and then ex.
act what pledge you will."
"' It is a very short tale.  I took a walk with Isabella and
Gertrude one day, about three weeks ago. They reached home
before me: I stayed behind to speak to John. After leaving
him, I pleased myself with lingering in the lane, where all
was very still andi shady: I was tired of chattering to the
girls, and in no hurry to rejoin them.  As I stood leaning
against the gate-pillar, thinking some very happy thoughts
about my future life-for that morning I imagined that events
were beginning to turn as I had long wished them to turn-"
"Ah! Nunnely had been with her the evening before "
thought Moore, parenthetically.
"I heard a panting sound; a dog came running up the
lane. I know most of the dogs in this neighborhood; it was
Phoebe, one of Mr. Sam Wynne'g pointers. The poor creature
ran with her head down, her tongue hanging out; she looked
as if bruised and beaten all over. I called her; I meant to
coax her into the house, and give her some water and dinner;
I felt sure she had been ill-used: Mr. Sam often flogs his
pointers cruelly.  She was too flurried to know me; and
when I attempted to pat her head, she turned and snatched
at my arm.  She bit it so as to draw blood, and then ran
panting on. Directly after, Mr. Wynne's keeper came up,
carrying a gun. He asked if I had seen a dog; I told him I
had seen Phoebe.
"' You had better chain up Tartar, ma'am,' he said,' and
tell your people to keep within the house; I am after Phebe
to shoot her, and the groom is gone another way. She is
raging mad.'
Mr. Moore leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms
across his chest: Miss Keeldar resumed her square of silk can
vas, and continued the. creation of a wreath of' Parmeso violets




450                   SHIRLJY.
" And you told no one, sought no help, no cure; you would
riot come to ine?"
"I got as fir as the school-room door; there my courage
failed: I preferred to cushion the matter."
" WThy? What can I demand better in this world than to
be of use to you 1"
"I had no claim."
"Monstrous! And you did nothing'"
" Yes: I walked straight into the laundry, where they are
ironing most of the week, now that I have so many guests in
the house.  While the maid was busy crimping or starching,
I took an Italian iron from the fire and applied the light scarlet, glowing tip to my arm: I bored it well in: it cauterized
the little wound.  Then I went up stairs."
"I dare say you never once groaned?"
" I am sure I don't know. I was very miserable. Not firn
otr tranquil at all, I think: there was no calm in my mind."
"There was calm in your person. I remember listening
the whole time we sat at luncheon, to hear if you moved in
the room above: all was quiet."
" I was sitting at the foot of the bed, wishing Phcebe had not
bitten me."
"And alone! You like solitude."
" Pardoni -me."
" You disdain sympathy."
"Do- -I-Mr. Moore?
" With your powerful mind, you must feel independent el'
help, of advice, of society."
" So be it-since it pleases you."
She smiled.  She pursued her embroidery carefully and
quickly; but her eyelash twinkled, and then it glittered, andl
then a drop fell.
Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk, moved his chair, altered his attitude.
"If it is not so," he asked, with a peculiar, mellow change
in his voice, " how is it, then?"
"I don't know."
"You do know, but you won't speak: all must be locked
tip in yourself."
"Because it is not worth sharing."
"Because nobody can give the hilgh price you -require fot




PH B CE.                     451,
our confidence. Nobody is r'ch enougn to purchase it.  No
dy has thre honor, the intellect, the power you denmard in
your adviser.  There is not a shoulder in England on whichl
you would rest your hand fbr support —far less a bosom which
you would permit to pillow your head.  Of course, you must
live alone."
"I can live alone, if need be. But the question is not how
to live-but how to die alone.  That strikes me in a more
grisly light."
" You apprehend the effects of the virus?  You anticipate
an indefinitely threatening, dreadful doom?"
She bowed.
- You are very nervous and womanish."
" You complimented me two minutes since on my powerful
mind."
" You are very woranish. If the whole afiair were coolly
examined and discussed, I feel assured it would turn out that
there is no danger of your dying at all."
"Amen! I am very willing to live, if it please God.  ]
have felt life sweet."
" How can it be otherwise than sweet with your endowmnents and nature?  Do you truly expect that you will be
seized with hydrophobia, and die raving mad?"
" I expect it, and have feared it. Just now, I fear nothin,."
"Nor do I, on your account.  I doubt whether the smallest particle of virus mingled with your blood; and if it did,
let me assure you that-young, healthy, faultlessly sound as
you are-no harm will ensue. For the rest, I shall inquire
whether the dog was really mad. I hold she was not mad "
" Tell nobody that she bit me."
" Why should I, when I believe the bite innocuous as a cut
of this penknife. Make yourself easy: I am easy, though I
value your life as much as I do my own chance of happiness
in eternity. Look up."
"Wi'hy, Mr. Moore?"
" I wish to see if you are cheered. Put your work dowsi
raise your head."
"There-"
"Look at me. Thank you! And is the cloud broken?"
I fear nothing."
"Is your minil restored to its own'latura], sunny linme?"
U




452                   SIIIRLEY.
"I am very ccntent; but I want your pro'm- e."
D' ictate."
"You know, in case the worst I have feared should hall
pen, they will smother me. You need not smile: they will
-they always do. My uncle will be full of horror, weakness,
precipitation; and that is the only expedient which will suggest itself to him. Nobody in the house will be self-possessed
but you: now promise to befriend me-to keep Mr. Sympson
away from me —not to let Henry come near, lest I should hurt
him. Mind —nind that you take care of yourself, too; but
I shall not injure you, I know I shall not. Lock the chamber
door against the surgeons-turn them out, if they get in. Let
neither the young nor the old MacTurk lay a finger on me;
nor Ml\r. Graves, their colleague; and, lastly, if I give trouble,
with your own hand administer to me a strong narcotic: such
a sure dose of laudanum as shall leave no mistake. Promzise
to do this."
Moore left his desk, and permitted himself the recreation of
one or two turns through the room. Stopping behind Shirley's
chair, he bent over her, and said, in a low, emphatic voice,
" I promise all you ask-without comment, without reservation."' If female help is needed, call in my housekeeper, Mrs.
Gill: let her lay me out, if I die.  She is attached to me.
She wronged me again and again, and again and again I for..
gave her. She now loves me, and would not defraud me of a
pin: confidence has made her honest; forbearance has made
her kind-hearted. At this day, I can trust both her integrity,
her courage, and her affection. Call her; but keep my good
aunt and my timid cousins away. Once more, promise."' I promise."
" That is good in you," she said, looking up at him as he
bent above her, and smiling.
"Is it good?  Does it comfort?"
"Very much."
"I will be with'you-I and IlVlrs. Giil only —in any, in
every extremity where calm and fidelity are needed. No rash
or coward hand shall meddle."
"Yet you think me childish?'"
"Ah  youl despise me" 




PH(E B,                    453
cDo we despise children?'
"In fact, I am neither so strong, nor have I sutlh pride in
my strength as people think, Mr. Moore; nor am I so regard.
less of sympathy; but when I have any grief, I fear to impart
it to those I love, lest it shou: d pain them; and to those whom
I view with indifference, I can not condescend to complain.
After all, you should not taunt me with being childish; for
if you were as unhappy as I have been for the last three weeks,
you too would want some friend."
" We all want a friend, do we not?"
"All of us that have any thing good in our natures."
" Well, you have Caroline Helstone."
"Yes.....  And you have Mr. Hall."
"Yes.....  Mrs. Pryor is a wise, good woman: she can
counsel you when you need counsel."
"For your part, you have your brother Robert."
"For any right-hand defections, there is the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., to lean upon; for any left-hand fallings
off, there is Hiram Yorke, Esq. Both elders pay you homage."
"I never saw Mrs. Yorke so motherly to any young man as
she is to you. I don't know how you have bwon her heart;
but she is more tender to you than she is to her own sons.
You have, besides, your sister, Hortense."
"It appears we are both well provided."
"It appears so."
"How thankful we ought to be!"
" Yes."
"How contented!"
" Yes."
" For my part, I am almost contented just now, and very
thankful. Gratitude is a divine emotion: it fills the heart, but
not to bursting: it warms it, but not to fever. I like to taste
leisurely of bliss: devoured in haste, I do not know its flavor."
Still leaning on the back of Miss Keeldar's chair, Moore
watched the rapid motion of her fingers, as the green and
purple garland grew beneath them. After a prolbnged pause,
lie again asked,
"Is the shadow quite gone?"
"Wholly. As I was two hours since, and as I am now
are two different states of existence.  I believe, Mr. Moore.
gricfs and fears nursed in silence grow like Titan infants."




45,4                  S HI RLEY.' You will cherish such feelings no more in silenc!'~
" Not if I dare speak."
"In using the word' dare,' to whom do you allude?"
"To you."
"' ow is it applicable to me?"' On account of your austerity and shyness 2"
" Why am I austere and shy?"
"Because you are proud."
"Why am I proud?"
"I should like to know: will you be good enough to tell
me?"
"Perhaps, because I am poor, for one reason: poverty and
pride often go together."
" That is such a nice reason: I should be charmed to discover another that would pair with it. Mate that turtle, Mr
Moore."
"Immediately.  What do you think of marrying to sober
Poverty many-tinted Caprice?"
"Are you capricious?"
Y" MiO6 are."
" A libel. I am steady as a rock: fixed as the Polar Star."
" I look out at some early hour of the day, and see a fine,
perfect rainbow, bright with promise, gloriously spanning the
beclouded welkin of life.  An hour afterward I look again.-half the arch is gone, and the rest is faded. Still later, the
etern sky denies that it ever wore so benign a symbol of hope."
" Well, Mr. Moore, you should contend against these changeful humors: they are your besetting sin.  One never knows
where to have you."
"Miss Keeldar, I had once-for two years-a pupil who
grew very dear to me.  Henry is dear, but she was dearer.
Henry never gives me trouble: she-well-she did.  I think
she vexed me twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four."
"She was never with you above three hours, or at the most
Fix at a time."
" She sometimes spilled the draught from my cup, and stole
the food from my plate; and when she had kept me unfed for
a day (and that did not suit me, for I am a man accustomed
to take my meals with reasonable relish, and to as'ribe due,mportance to the rational enjoyment of creature comforts)-"
"I know yoa do.  I can tell what sort of dinners you like




PHE B E.                      455
oest —perfectly well.  I know precisely the dishes you prefbar."
"She robbed these dishes of flavor, and made a fool of me
be.sides.  I like to sleep well.  In my quiet days, when I
was my own man, I never quarreled with the night for being
long, nor cursed my bed for its thorns.  She changed all
this."
" Mr. Moore-"
" And having taken from me peace of mind, and ease of life,
she took from me herself, quite coolly-just as if, when she
was gone, the world would be all the same to me. I knew
I should see her again at some time.  At the end of two years,
it fell out that we encountered again under her own roof,
where she was mistress.  How do you think she bore herself'
toward me, Miss Keeldar?"
"Like one who had profited well by lessons lealned from
yourself."
" She received me haughtily: she meted out a wide space
between us, and kept me aloof by the reserved gesture, the
rare and alienated glance, the word calmly civil."
"She was an excellent pupil! HI-aving seen you distant,
she at once learned to withdraw.  Pray, sir, admire, in her
hauteur, a careful improvement on your own coolness."
"Conscience, and honor, and the most despotic necessity,
dragged me apart from her, and kept me sundered with ponderous fetters.  She was free: she might have been clement."
" Never free to compromise her self'respect: to seek where
she had been shunned."
" Then she was inconsistent: she tantalized as before.
When I thought I had made up my mind to seeing in her
only a lofty stranger, she would suddenly show me such a
glimpse of loving simplicity-she would warm me with such
% beam of reviving sympathy, she would gladden an hour with
zonverse so gentle, gay, and kindly —that I could no more shut
my heart on her image, than I could close that door against
her presence. Explain why she distressed me so."
" She could not bear to be quite outcast; and then she
would sometimes get a notion into her head, on a cold, wet
day, that the school-room was no cheerful place, and feel it innumbent on her to go and see if you and Henry kept up a good
lire; and once there, she liked to stay."




456                   S SHIRLEY.
" But she should not be changefulf: if she came at all, she
should come oftener."
"There is such a thing as intrusion."
"To-morrow, you will not be as you are to-day."
"i don't know. Will you?"
I;'  am not mad, most noble Berenice! WVe may give one
day to dreaming, but the next we must awake; and I shall
awake, to purpose, the morning you are married to Sir Philip
Nunnely.  The fire shines on you and me, and shows us very
clearly in the glass, Miss Keeldar, and I have been gazing
on the picture all the time I have been talking.  Look up!
What a difference between your head and mine! I look old
fir thirty!"
"You are so grave; you have such a square brow; and
3,ur face is sallow. I never regard you as a young man, nor
atS Robert's junior."
"Don't you?  I thought not. Imagine Robert's clear-cut,
handsome face looking over my shoulder. Does not the apparition make vividly manifest the obtuse mold of my heavy
traits? There!" (he started) " I have been expecting that
wire to vibrate this last half hour."
The dinner-bell rang, and Shirley rose.
"Mr. Moore," she said, as she gathered up her silks, " have
you heard from your brother lately?  Do you know what he
means by staying in town so long X Does he talk of return" He talks of returning; but what has caused his long absence I canll not tell. To speak the truth, I thought none in
Yorkshire knew better than yourself why he was reluctant to
come home."
A crimson shadow passed across Miss Keeldar's cheek.
" Write to him, and urge him to come," she said. " I know
there has been no impolicy in protracting his absence thus far.
it is good to let the mill stand while trade is so bad; but he
must not abandon the country."
"I am aware," said Louis, " that he had an interview witl
you the evening before he left, and I saw him quit Fieldhead
afterward.  I read his countenance, or tried to read it. He
turnead from me  I divined that he would be long away.
Some fine slight fingers have a wondrous knack at pulverizing
a man's brittle pride. I suppose Robert put too much trl.'ls




LOUIS MOORE.                    457
nm his manlyr beauty and native gentleraanhood, Those are
better off who, being destitute of advantage, call not cherish
delusion.  But I will write, and say you advise his return."
" Do not say I advise his return, but that his return is adl
visable."
The second bell rang, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.
CIHIAPTEIR XXIX.
LOUIS MOORE.
Louis MoonRE was used to a quiet life: being a quiet man.,
he endured it better than most men would: having a large
world of his own in his own head and heart, he tolerated con.
finement to a small, still corner of the real world very pa
tiently.
How hushed is Fieldhead this evening! All but MooreMiss Keeldar, the whole family of the Sympsons, even Henry
-are gone to Nunnely.  Sir Philip would have them come:
he wished to make them acquainted with his mother and sisters, who are now at the Priory.  Kind gentleman as the
baronet is, he asked the tutor too; but the tutor would much
sooner have made an appointment with the ghost of the Earl
of Huntingdon, to meet him, and a shadowy ring of his merry
men, under the canopy of the thickest, blackest, oldest oak in
Nunnely Forest. Yes, he would rather have appointed tryste
with a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun, among the wet and
weedy relies of that ruined sanctuary of theirs, moldering in
the core of the wood. Louis Moore longs to have something
near him to-night: but not the boy-baronet, nor his benevolent
but stern mother, nor his patrician sisters, nor one soul of the
Syrmpsons.
This night is not calm: the equinox still struggles in its
storms. The wild rains of the day are abated: the great
single cloud disparts and rolls away fiom heaven, not passing
and leaving a sea all sapphire, but tossed buoyant b fore a
continued, long-sounding, high-rushing moonlight Tempest




458                    S H T IRLEY.
The Moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale; as glad as if she
gave herself to his fierce caress with love.  No Endy!nion
will watch for his goddess to-night: there are no flocks out
on the mountains; and it is well, for to-night she welcomes
A]olus.
Moore-sitting in the school-room-heard the storm  roai
round the other gable, and along the hall-front: this end was
sheltered.  I-Ie wanted no shelter; he desired no subdued
sounds, or screened position.
" All the parlors are empty," said he: "I am sick at heart
of this cell."
lHe left it, and went where the casements, larger alid freei
than the branch-screened lattice of his own apartment, admritted unimpeded the dark-blue, the silver-fleeced, the stiiring and sweeping vision of the autumn night-sky.  IIe carlied  ro candle: unneeded was lamp or fire: the broad and
clear, though cloud-crossed and fluctuating beam of the moon
shone on every floor and wall.
Moore wanders through all the rooms: he seems following
a phantom from parlor to parlor.  It the oak-roor he stops
this is not chill, and polished, and fireless like tlie saloon: tlt.
hearth is hot and ruddy; the ciltders tinkle in the intense
heat of their clear glow; near the rug is a little work-table,
a desk upon it, a chair near it.
Does the vision MIoore has tracked occupy that chairl
You would think so, could you see him  standing before it
There is as much interest now in his eye, and as much sig.
nificance in his face, as if in this household solitude he hac
found a living companion, and was going to speak to it.
He makes discoveries.  A bag, a small satin bag, hangs
on the chair-back.  The desk is open, the keys are in the
lock; a pretty seal, a silver pen, a crimson berry or two of
ripe fruit on a green leaf, a small, clean, delicate glove —these
trifles at once decorate and disarrange the stand they strew.
Order forbids details in a picture: she puts them tidily away;
but details give charm.
Moore spoke.
"I Her mark," he said:;here she has been-careless, attractive thing! —-called away in haste, doubtless, and forgetting to return and put all to rights. Why does she leave fascination in her foot-prints?   W hence did she acquire the gift




LOUIS MOORE.                     459
to Le heedl.ss and never offend? There is always soniething
to chide in her, and the reprimand never settles in displeasure
on the heart; but, for her lover or her husband, when it had
trickled a while in words, would naturally melt from his lips
in a kiss. Better pass half an hour in remonstrating with
her, than a day in admiring or praising any other woman
~live.  Am I muttering?-soliloquizing?  Stop that."
He did stop it. He stood thinking; and then he made an
arrangement for his evening's comfort.
He dropped the curtains over the broad window and regal
moon: he shut out Sovereign and Court and Starry Armies;
he added fuel to the hot but fast-wasting fire; he lit a candle,
of which there were a pair on the table; he placed anothel
chair opposite that near the work-stand, and then he sat
down. His next movement was to take from his pocket a
small, thick book of blank paper; to produce a pencil; and to.
begin to write in a cramp, compact hand.  Come near, by
all means, Reader: do not be shy: stoop over his shoulde
fearlessly, and read as he scribbles.
"It is nine o'clock; the carriage will not return before
eleven, I am certain.  Freedom is mine till then: till then,
I may occupy her room; sit opposite her chair; rest my elbow on her table; have her little mementos about me.
"I used rather to like Solitude-to fancy her a somewhat
quiet and serious, yet fair nymph; an Oread, descending to
me from lone mountain-passes; something of the blue mist of
hills in her array, and of their chill breeze in her breath —
but much, also, of their solemn beauty in her mien. I once
could court her serenely, and imagine my heart easier when
I held her to it-all mute, but majestic.
"' Since that day I called S. to me in the school-room, and
she came and sat so near my side; since she opened thn
trouble of her mind to me-asked my protection-appealed
to my strength: since that hour, I abhor Solitude. Cold ab
Ptraction-fleshless skeleton-daughtsr-mother-and mate
of Death!
"It is pleasant to write about what is near and dear as the
core of my heart: none can deprive me of this little book, and,
through this pencil, I can say to it what I will-say what i
dare utter to nothing living-say what I dare not tVinil
aloud.
U*




4.60                   SHIRLEY.
" We have scarcely encountered each other since that even
ing.  Once, when I was alone in the drawing-room, Se;eking
r book of IHenry's, she entered, dressed for a concert at Stilbro'.  Shyness —ier shynress, not mine-drew  a silver vail
hetween us. M..uch cant have I heard and read about'maiden modesty  but, properly used, and not hackneyed, the words
are good and appropriate words: as she passed to the window,
after tacitly but gracefully recognizing me, I could call her
nothing in my own mind save'stainless virgin:' to my per.
ception, a delicate splendor robed her, and the modesty of
girlhood was her halo. I may be the most fatuitous, as I
am  one of the plainest, of men; but, in truth, that shyness of hers touched me exquisitely: it flattered my finest
sensations.  I looked a stupid block, I dare say: I was alive
with a life of Paradise, as she Turned her glance from my
alance, and softly averted her head to hide the suffulsion of
her cheek.
" I know this is the talk of a dreamer-of a rapt, romantic
lunatic: I do dream: I will dream now and then; and if
she has inspired romance into my prosaic composition, how.an I help it?
"What a child she is sometimes! What an unsophistica.
ted, untaught thing! i see her now, looking up into my face,
and entreating me to prevent them fromn smothering her, and
to be sure and give her a strong narcotic: I see her confessilJg that she was not so self-sufficing, so independent of sympathy, as people thought: I see the secret tear drop quietly
from i:er eyelash.  She said I thought her childish-and I
did. She imagined I despised her. Despised her! it was
Unutterably sweet to feel myself at once near her and above
her: to be conscious of a natural right and power to sustain
her, as a husband should sustain his wife.
"I worship herl perfections; but it is her faults, or at least
her foibles, that bring her near to me-that nestle her to my
heart-that fold her about with my love-and that for a
most selfish, but leeply-natural reason: these faults are the
steps by which I mount to ascendancy over her. If she rose
a trimmed, artificial mound, without inequality, what vantage
would she offer the foot?  It is the natural hill, with its
mossy breaks and hollows, wN hose slope invites ascent —whose
sum:2it it is pleasure to gain.




LOUIS MOORE.                      46t
"To "leave metaphor.  It delights my eye to l(0ok on her:
Ohe suits me: if I were a king, and she the housemaid that
swept my palace-stairs-across all that space between usmy eye would recognize her qualities; a true pulse would
beat for her in my heart, though an unspanned gulf made acquaintance impossible. If I were a gentleman, aid she waited on me as a servant, I could not help liking that Shirley.
Take from her her education-take her ornaments, her sumptuous dress-all extrinsic advantages-take all grace, but
such as the symmetry of her form renders inevitable; present
her to me at a cottage-door, in a stuff gown; let her offer mn
there a draught of water, with that smile —with that warm
good-will with which she now dispenses manorial lhospitality
-I should like her. I should wish to stay an hour: I should
linger to talk with that rustic.  I should not feel as I qow
do: I should find in her nothing divine; but whenever I met
the young peasant, it would be with pleasure —whenever I
left her, it would be with regret.
" HIow culpably careless in her to leave her desk opera,
where I know she has money! In the lock hang the keys
of all her repositories, of her very jewel-casket. There is a
purse in that little satin bag: I see the tassel of silver beads
hanging out. That spectacle would provoke my brother lRobert: all her little failings would, I know, be a source of irritation to him; if they vex me, it is a most pleasurable vexation: I delight to find her at fault, and were I always resident with her, I am aware she would be no niggard in thus
ministering to my enjoyment.  She would just give me somnething to do; to rectifyr: a theme fbr my tutor-lectures.  I
never lecture Henry; never feel disposed to do so: if he does
wrong-and that is very seldom, dear excellent lad!-a word
suffices: often I do no more than shake my head: but the
moment her'minois mutin' meets my eye, expostulatory
words crowd to my lips: from a taciturn man, I believe she
would transform me into a talker.  Whence comes the delight I take in that talk. It puzzles myself sometimes: the
more crane, malin, taqtinb is her mood, consequently the
clearer occasion she gives me for disapprobation, the more 1
seek lier, the better I like her.  She is never wilder than
wher squippctl in her habit and Eat; never less manageable
than When she and Zoe come in fiery from a race witl, 1he




462                   8H IRLEY.
wind on the hills; and I confess it —to this mute Fage I may
confess it-I have waited an hour in the court, for the chance
of witnessing her return, and for the dearer chance of receiving her in my arms from the saddle. I have noticed (again,
it is to this page only I would make thile remark) that she
will never permit any man but myself to render her that assistance.  I have seen her politely decline Sir Philip Nunnely's aid: she is always mighty gentle with her young baronet; inighty tender of his feelings, forsooth, and of his very
thin-skinned anour-propre: I have marked her haughtily re
ject Sam Wynne's.  Now I know-my heart knows it, for
it has felt-that she resigns herself to me unreluctantly: is
she conscious how my strength rejoices to serve her?  I myself am not her slave-I declare it —but my faculties gather
to her beauty, like the genii to the glisten of the Lamp. All
my knowledge, all my prudence, all my calm, and all my
power, stand in her presence humbly waiting a task. IHow
glad they are when a mandate comes   WVhat joy they takle
in the toil she assigns   Does she know it?
"I have called her careless: it is remarkable that her carelessness never compromises her refinement; indeed, through
this very leop-hole of character, the reality, depth, genuineness
of that refinement may be ascertained: a whole garment
sometimes covers meagerness and malformation; through a
rent sleeve, a fair, round arm may be revealed.  I have seen
and handled many of her possessions, because they are frequently astray.  I never saw any thinlg that did not proclaim
the lady: nothing sordid, nothing soiled; in one sense she is
as scrupulous as in another she is unthinking; as a peasant
girl, she would go ever trim and cleanly.  Look at the pure
kid of this little glove-at the fresh, unsullied satin of the
bag.
"WThat a difference there is between S. and that pearl, C.
H.   Caroline, I fancy, is the soul of conscientious punctuality and nice exactitude; she would precisely suit the domestic habits of a certain fastidious kinsman of mine: so delicate,
dexterous, quaint, quick, quiet; all done to a minute, all arranged to a strawbreadth: she would suit Robert; but what
could I do with any thingff so nearly faultless?  She is my
equal; poor as myself; she is certainly pretty: a little Raf
felle head hers, Iafiaelle in feature, quite English in expres




LOUIS MOORE.                      463
gi::l: all insular grace and purity; but where is there any
thing to alter, ally thing to endure, any thling to reprimand,
to be anxious about?  There she is, a lily of the valley, untinted, needin( no tint.  What change coulid improve her?
What pencil dare to paint?  Z 1V sweet-heart, if I ever have
One, must bear nearer affinity to the rose: a sweet, lively delight, guarded with prickly perlf.  II?/ wife, if I ever marry,
must stir my great frame with a sting now and then: she
must furnish use to her husband's vast mass of patience. I
was not made so enduring to be mated with a lamb: I should
find more congenial responsibility in the charge of a young
lioness or leopardess. I like few things sweet, but what are
likewise pungent; few things bright, but what are likewise
hot.  I like the summer day, whose sun makes fruit blush
and corn blanch.  Beauty is never so beautiful as when, if I
teaze it, it wreathes back on me with spirit.  Fascination is
ilever so imperial as when, roused and half ireful, she threa.tens transformation to fierceness.  I fear I should tire of the
mute, monotonous innocence of the lamb; I should ere long
feel as burdensome the nestling dove which never stirred in
my bosom; but my patience would exult in stilling the flutterings and training the energies of the restless merlin.  In
managing the wild instincts of the scarce manageable'bd6tr
ftauve' my powers would revel.
" Oh, my pupil! Oh, Peri! too mutinous for heaven —too
innocent for hell  never shall I do more than see, and worship, and wish for thee.  Alas! knowing I could make thee
happy, will it be my doom to see thee possessed by those who
have not that; power?
" However kindlv the hand-if it is feeble, it can not bend
Shirley; and she must be bent: it can not curb her, and she
mlust be curbed.
" Beware!  Sir Philip Nunnely! I never see you walking
or sitting at her side, and observe her lips compressed, or her
brow knit, in resolute endurance of some trait of your character which she neither admires nor likes; in determined toleration of some weakness she believes atoned for by a virtue,
but which annoys her, despite that belief': I never mark the
grave glow of her face, the unsmiling sparkle of her eye, the!light recoil of her whole frame when you draw a little-too
rear, and gaze a little too expressively, and whisper a ]Ittlo




46t                   SHIRL E Y.
too warmly: i never witness these things but I ttit k of the
fable of Semele reversed.
"It is not the daughter of Cadmus I see; nor do I realize
her fatal longing to look on Jove in the majesty of his godhead.  It is a priest of Juno that stands before me, watching
late and lone at a shrine in an Aigive temple.  For years of
solitary ministry he has lived on dreanls: there is divine mad
ness upon him: he loTes the idol he serves, and prays day
and night that his phrensy may be fed, and that the Ox-eyed
may smile on her votary.  She has heard; she will be propitious.  All Argos slumbers.  The doors of the temple are
shut; the priest waits at the altar.
" A shock of heaven and earth is felt —not by the slumber.
ing city; only by that lonely watcher, brave and unshaken in
his fanaticism. In the midst of silence, with no preluding
sound, lie is wrapped in sudden light.  Through the roofthrough the rent, wide-yawning, vast, white-blazing blue of
heaven above, pours a wondrous descent-dread as the downrushing of stars.  He has what he asked: withdraw-forbeai
to look-I am blinded.  I hear in that fane an unspeakabnb
sound —would that I could not hear it! I see an insuffert.
ble glory burning terribly between the pillars. Gods, be rierciful, and quench it!
"A pious Argive enters to make an early offering in the
cool dawn of morning.  There was thunder in the night: the
belt fell here.  The shrine is shivered: the marble pavement
round, split and blackened.  Saturnia's statue rises chaste,
grand, untouched: at her feet piled ashes lie pale.  No priest
remains: he who wnpatched will be seen no more.
"There is the carriage! Let me lock up the desk and
pocket the keys: she will be seeking them -to-morrow: she
will have to come to me.  I hear her"' Mr. Moore, have you seen my keys?'
"So she will say in her clear voice, speaking with reluctalice, looking ashamed, conscious that this is the twentieth
time of asking.  I will tantalize her: keep her with me, expecting, doubting; and when I do restore them, it shall not
be without a lecture.  Here is the bag, too, and the purse;
the glove — pen-seal.  She shall wring them  all out of me
s'lowly and separately: only by confession, penitence, entreaty




[RUSH EDGE, A CONFESSIONAL.               465
I never can touch her hand, or a ringlet of her head, or a
ribbon of her dress, but I will make privileges for myself:
every feature of her face, her bright eyes, her lips, shall go
through each change they know, for my pleasure: display
each exquisite variety of glance and curve, to d3light-thrill
-perhaps, more hopelessly to enchain me. If I must be her
slave, I will not lose my fireedom for nothing."
He locked the desk, pocketed all the property, and wer. t
CHAPTER XXX.
RUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL.
EVERY body said it was high time for Mr. Moore to retunri
home: all Briarfield wondered at his strange absence, and
~Whinbury and Nunnely brought each its separate contribution of amazement.
Was it known why he stayed away?  Yes: it was known
twenty-forty times over; there being, at least, forty plausi.
ble reasons adduced to account for the unaccountable circumstance.  Business, it was not —that the gossips agreed: hc
had achieved the business on which he departed long ago.
his four ringleaders he had soon scented out and run down
he had attended their trial, heard their conviction and sentence, and seen them safely shipped prior to transportation.
This was known at Briarfield: the newspapers had reported it: the " Stilbro' Courier" had given every particular, with
amplifications. None applauded his perseverance or hailed
his success; though the mill-owners were glad of it, trusting
that the terrors of Law vindicated would henceforward paralyze the sinister valor of disaffection. Disaffection, however,
was still heard muttering to himself. He swore ominous oaths
over the drugged beer of ale-houses, and drank strange toasts
in fiery British gin.
One report aflirmed that Moore cdared not come to York.
shire: he knew his life was not worth an hour's purchase, if
he did.
"I'll tell hire that," said Mr. Yorke, when his foremna




466                   S  I ILEY
mentioned the rumlor; " and if that does not bring him inotin
full-gallop-nothing will."
Either that or some other motive prevailed, at last, to recall him.  He announced to Joe Scott the day he should ar.
rive at Stilbro', desiring his hackney to be sent to the " George"
for his accommodation: and Joe Scott having informed Mr.
Yolke, that gentleman made it in his way to meet him.
It was market-day: Moore arrived in time to take his usual place at the market dinner. As something of a strangerand as a man of note and action-the assembled manufacturers received him with a certain distinction.  Some-who in
public would scarcely have dared to acknowledge his acquaintance, lest a little of the hate and vengeance laid up in store
for him should perchance have fallen on them-in private
hailed him as in some sort their champion.  WThen the wine
had circulated, their respect would have kindled to enthusiasm, had not Moore's unshaken nonchalance held it in a damp,
low, smoldering state.
Mr. Yorke —the permanent president of these dinners —
witnessed his young fiiend's bearing with exceeding compla
cency.  If one thing could stir his temper or excite his conm
tempt more than another, it was to see a man befooled by
flattery or elate with popularity. If one thing smoothed,
soothed, and charmed him especially, it was the spectacle ot
a public character incapable of relishing his publicity: incapable, I say; disdain would but have incensed-it was indift
%rence that appeased his rough spirit.
Robert, leaning back in his chair, quiet and almost surly,
while the clothiers and blanket-makers vaunted his prowess
and rehearsed his deeds-many of them interspersing their
flatteries with coarse invectives against the operative class —was a delectable sight for Mr. Yorke.  His heart tingled with
the pleasing conviction that these gross eulogiums shamed
Moore deeply, and made him half' scorn himself and his work.
On abuse, on reproach, on calumrny, it is easy to smile; but
painful indeed is the panegyric of those we contemn.  Often
had Moore gazed with a brilliant countenance over howling
crowds fiom a hostile hustings: he had breasted the storm
of unpopularity with gallant bearing and soul elate; but he
diooped his head under the half-bred tradesmen's praise, Cand
shrank clhagrincd before their congratulations.




RUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL.                   467
Yorke could not help asking him how he liked his supporters, and whether he did not think they did honor to his cause.']But it is a pity, lad," he added, "that you did not hang these
four samples of the Unwashed. If you had managed thcat
feat, the gentry here would have riven the horses out of the
coach, yoked to a score of asses, and drawn you into Stilbro'
like a conquering general."
Moore soon forsook the wine, broke from the party, and
took the road.  In less than five minutes Mr. Yorke followed
himn: they rode out of Stilbro' together.
It was early to go home, but yet it was late in the day:
the last ray of the sun had already faded from the cloud-edges,
and the October night was casting over the moorlands the
shadow of her approach.
Mr. Yorke- moderately exhilarated with his moderate libations, and not displeased to see young Moore again in Yolkshire, and to have him for his comrade during the long ride
home-took the discourse much to himself.  He touched briefly, but scoffingly, on the trials and the conviction; he passed
thence to the gossip of the neighborhood, and, ere long, he attacked Moore on his own personal concerns.
4' Bob, I believe you are worsted; and you deserve it. All
was smooth.  Fortune had fallen in love with you: she had
decreed you the first prize in her wheel-twenty thousand
pounds: she only required that you should hold your hand out
and take it.  And what did you do?  You called for a horse
and rode a-hunting to Warwickshire.  Your sweet-heartFortune, I mean -was perfectly indulgent.  She said,'I'll
excuse him: he's young.'  She waited like'Patience on a
monument,' till the chase was over, and the vermin-prey run
down. She expected you would come back then and be a
good lad: you might still have had her first prize.
"It capped her beyond expression, and me too, to find that,
instead of thunderino home in a break-neck gallop, and laying your assize laurels at her feet, you coolly took coach up to
London. What you have done there, Satan kinows: nothing
in this world, I believe, but sat and sullied: your face was
never lily-fair, but it is olive-green now.  You're not as bonnie as you were, manl."
" And who is to have this prize you talk so much about?"
"Only a baronet: that is all.  I have not a doubt in my




463                   SHIRLEY.
own mind vou've lost her: she will be Lady Nunnely before
Ohristmas."
"Hem' Quite probable."
"But she need not to have been.  Fool of a lad! I swema
you inight have had her!"
"By what token, Mr. Yorke?"
"By every token. By the light of her eyes, the red of her
cheeks: red they grew when your name was mentioned,
though of custom they are pale."
" My chance is quite over, I suppose?"
" It ought to be; but try: it is worth trying.  I call thti
Sir Philip milk and water.  And then he writes verses, they.
say —tags rhymes.  Youz are above that, Bob, at all events."
" Would you advise me to propose, late as it is, Mr. Yorke?
- t the eleventh hour l"                            I -
" You can but make the experiment, Robert.  If she has
a fancy for you —and, on my conscience, I believe she has, orRhad-she will forgive much.  But, my lad, you are laughing: is it at me? You had better girn at your own perverseness. - I see, however, you laugh at the wrong side of
vorutr mouth: you have as sour a look at this moment as one,
need wish to see."
" I have so quarreled with myself, Yorke.  I have so kicked against the pricks, and struggled in a strait waistcoat, and
dislocated rmyv wrists with wrenching them in handcuffs, and
battered my hard head by driving it against a harder wall."
"Ha  I'm glad to hear that.  Sharp exercise yon'! I
hope it has done you good; ta'en some of the self-conceit out
of' you 1"
" Self-conceit! What is it?  Self-respect, self-tolerance,
even, what are they?  Do you sell the articles? I Do you
know any body who does?  Give an indication: they would
find in me a liberal chapman. I would part with my last
guinea this minute to buy."
": Is it so with you, Robert?  I find that spicy. I like a
man to speak his mind.  WVhat has gone wrong."
"The machinery of all my nature; the whole enginery of
this human mill: the boiler, which I take to be the heart, is
fit to burst."
"That suld be putten i' print: it's striking.  It's almost
blank verse.  Ye'll be jingling into poetry just e'now.  If the




RUSHEDGE, A CONFESSI.ONAL.                 469
amatus comes, give way, Robert; never heed me: I'll bear
it this whet" (time).
" I-ideous, abhorrent, base blunder! You may commit in
a moment what you will r':e for years-what life can not
cancel."
"Lad, go on. I call it pie, nuts, sugar-candy.  I like the
taste uncommonly.  Go on: it will do you good to talk: the
moor is before us now, and there is no life for many a mile
round."
I'  will talk.- I arnm not ashamed to tell. There is a sort ol
wild cat in my breast, and I choose that you shall hear how
it can yell."
"'To me it is music.  What grand voices you and Louis
liave! When Louis sings —tones off lile a soft, deep bell, I've
felt myself tremble again.  The night is still: it listens: it
is just leaning down to you, like a black priest to a blacker
penitent.  Confess, lad: smooth naught down: be candid as
a convicted, justified, sanctified Methody at an experiencemeeting.  Make yourself as wicked as Beelzebub: it will
ease your mind."
" As mean as Mammon, you would say.  Yorke, if I got
off horseback and laid myself down across the road, would
you have the goodness to gallop over me-backward and for.
ward-about twenty times?"
I" Wi' all the pleasure in life, if there were no such thing
as a coroner s inquest."
"Hiram Yorke, I certainly believed she loved me. I have
seen her eyes sparkler radiantly when she has oiund me out in
a crowd: she has flushed up crimson when she has offered
nxt her hand, and said,' How do you do, Mr. Moore?'
"' My name had a magical influence over her: when others
uttered it, she changed countenance-I know she did.  She
pronounced it herself in the most musical of her many musical
tones.  She was cordial to me; she took an interest in me;
she was anxious about me; she wished me well; she sought,
she seized every opportunity to benefit me.  I considered,
paused, watched, weighed, wondered: I could come to but
one conclasion-this is love.
" I looked at her, Yorke: I saw, in her, youth and a species of beauty.  I saw power in her.  Her wealth offered me
Lhe redomptior of my honor and'my stanc'ing.  I owed he




470                   SHIRLEY.
gratitude.  She had aided me substantially and effieetu lly by
a loan of live thousand pounds.  Could I remember these
things?  Could I believe she loved me?  Could I hear wis.
dom urge me to marry her, and disregard every dear advantage, disbelieve every flattering suggestion, disdain every wellweighed counsel, turn and leave her?  Young, graceful, gracious-my benefactress; attached to me, enamored of me —I
used to say so to myself: dwell on the word; mouth it -over
and over again; swell over it with a pleasant, pompous complacency-with an admiration dedicated entirely to myself,
and unimpaired even by esteem for her: indeed, I smiled in
deep secrecy at her naivete and simplicity, in being the first
to love, and to show it. That whip of yours seems to have a
good heavy handle, Yorke: you can swing it about your head
and knock me out of the saddle, if you choose. I should rather
relish a loundering whack."
" Talk' patience, Rlobert, till the moon rises, and I can see
you.  Speak plain out-did you love her, or not   I could
like to know: I feel curious."
" Sir.. Sir-I say-she is very pretty, in her own style,
and very attractive.  She has a look, at times, of a thing
made out of fire and air, at which I stand and marvel, without a thought of clasping and kissing it.  I felt in her a pow
erful magnet to my interest and vanity: I never felt as if na
ture meant her to be my other and better self. When a question on that head rushed upon me, I flung it off, saying brutally, I should be rich with her, and ruined without her:
rowing I would be practical, and not romantic."
"A  very sensible resolve.  WVhat mischief came of it,
3ob 2".
"With this sensible resolve, I walked up to Fieldhead one
a:ght last August:- it was the very eve of my departure for
Birmingham-for-you see-I wanted to secure fortune's;plendid prize: I had previously dispatched a note, requesting
private interview. I found her at home, and alone.
" She received me without embarrassment, for she thought
L came on business: I was embarrassed enough, but determ
ined. I hardly know how I got the operation over; but I went
to work in a hard, firmfashion-frightful enough, I dare say.
I sternly offered myself-my fine person-with my debts, of
course, as a settlement.




RUS  EDGE, A C ONFESS 1NAL.               471
"It vexed me; it kindled my ire, to find that she neither
blushed, trembled, nor looked down.  She responded:
"' I doubt whether I have understood you, Mr. Moore.'
"And I had to go over the whole proposal twice, and word
it as plainly as A B C, before she would fully take it in. And
then, what did she do? Instead of faltering a sweet Yes, or
maintaining a soft, confused silence (which would have been
as good), she started up, walked twice fast through the room,
in the way that she only does, and no other woman, and
ejaculated,
"' God bless me!'
" Yorke, I stood on the hearth, backed by the mantle-piece;
against it I leaned, and prepared for any thing-every thing.
I knew my doom, and I knew myself.  There was no misunderstanding her aspect and voice. She stopped and looked
at me.
"' God bless me!' she pitilessly repeated, in that shocked,
indignant, yet saddened accent.'You have made a strange
proposal: strange from you: and if you knew how strangely
you worded it. and looked it, you would be startled at yourself. You spoke like a brigand who demanded my purse,
rather than like a lover who asked my heart.'
" A queer sentence, was it not, Yorke i and I knew, as she
uttered it, it was true as queer. Her words were a mirror in
which I saw myself.
" I looked at her, dumb and wolfish: she at once enraged
and shamed me.
"'Grard Moore, you know you don't love Shirley Keeldar.' I might have broken out into false-swearing: vowed
that I did love her; but I could not lie in her pure face: I
could not perjure myself' in her truthful presence. Besides,
such hollow oaths would have been vain as void: she would
no more have believed me than she would have believed the
ghost of Judas, had he broken from the night and stood before
her.: Her female heart had finer perceptions than to be cheated
into mistaking my half-coarse, half-cold admiration, for truethrobbing, manly love.
" What next happened? you will say, Mr. Yorke."'"Why, she sat down in the window-seat and cried.  Sh6
cried passionately: her eyes not only rained, but lightl-lened.
They flashed, open, large, dark, haughty, upon Inc: they




472                  SHIRLEY.
said —' You have?ained me: you have outrtA fri me, yo:i
have deceived me.'
"She added words soon to looks.
"' I did respect-I did admire-I did like you,' sb.e said:'yes-as much as if you were my brother: and yoz —you
want to make a speculation of me. You would immolate me
to that mill-your Moloch!'
" I had the common sense to abstain from any word of excuse-any attempt at palliation: I stood to be scorned.
" Sold to the devil for the time being, I was certainly infatuated: when I did speak, what do you think I said?
"' Whatever my own feelings were, I was persuaded yol
loved mne, Miss Keeldar.'
"Beautiful!-was it not?  She sat quite confounded.' Is
it Robert Moore that speaks?' I heard her mutter.' Is it a
man-or something lower 1'
"'iDo you mean,' she asked aloud-' do you mean you
thought I loved you as we love those we wish to marry?'
"It was my meaning; and I said so.
"' You conceived an idea obnoxious to a woman's feelings,'
was her answer:' you have announced it in a fashion revolting to a woman's soul. You insinuate that all the frank kindness I have shown you has been a complicated, a bold, and
an immodest maneuver to ensnare a husband: you imply that
at last you come here out of pity to offer me your hand, because I have courted you. Let me say this: Your sight is
jaundiced: you have seen wrong.  Your mind is warped.
you have judged wrong. Your tongue betrays you: you now
speak wrong. I never loved you. Be at rest there.  My
heart is as pure of passion for you as yours is barren of affection for me.'
"I hope I was answered, Yorke?
"' I seem to be a blind, besotted sort of person,' was ml
remark.
"' Loved you!'- she cried.'Why, I have been as frank
with you as a sister-never shunned you-never feared you.
You can not,' she affirmed, triumphantly —' you can not make
me tremble with your coming, nor accelerate my pulse by
your influence.'
"I alleged, that often, when she spoke to me, she blushe]
and that the sound of my name moved her.




RUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL.                 473
"Not for your sake!' she declared, briefly: I urged expla.
nation, but could get none.
"' When I sat beside you at the school-feast, did you think
I loved you then? When I stopped you in Maythorn Lane,
did you think I loved you then. When I called on you in
the counting-house-when I walked with you on the pavement-did you think I loved you then 2?
"So she questioned me: and I said, I did.
"By the Lord! Yorlke-she rose-she grew tall-she ex.
panded and refined almost to flame: there was a trembling all
through her, as in live coal, when its vivid vermilion is hottest.
"'That is to say, that you have the worst opinion of me:
that you deny me the possession of all I value most. That
is to say, that I am a traitor to all my sisters: that I have
acted as no woman can act, without degrading herself and her
sex: that I have sought where the incorrupt of my kind nat
urally scorn and abhor to seek.' She and I were silent, foi
many a minute.'Lucifer-Star of the Morning!' she went
on,'thou art fallen.  You-once high in my esteem-are
hurled down: you-once intimate in my friendship-are cast
out. Go!'
" I went not: I had heard her voice tremble-seen her lip
quiver: I knew another storm of tears would fall; and then,
I believed, some calm and some sunshine must come, and I
would wait for it.
"As fast, but more quietly than before, the warm rain
streamed down: there was another sound in her weeping-a
softer, more regretful sound.  While I watched, her eyes lifted to me a gaze more reproachful than haughty-more mournfill than incensed.
"'0, Moore!' said she:'it was worse than Et tu, Brute!'
" I relieved myself by what should have been a sigh, but it
became a groan. A sense of Cain-like desolation made my
breast ache
"' There has been error in. what I have done,' I said,' and
it has won me bitter wages; which I will go and spend far
from her who gave them.'
" I took my hat. All th.e time, I could not have borne to
depart so; and I believed she would not let me. Nor would
she, but for the mortal pang I had given her pride, that cow
ed her compassion and kept her silent.




474                   SHIRL EY.
"I was obliged to turn back of my own accord wherin 
reached te door, te or, to approach her and to say,' Forgive me.'
"' I could, if there was not myself to forgive too,' was hex
reply;' but to mislead a sagacious man so far, I must have
done wrong.'
"if broke out suddenly with some declamation I do not re.
member: I know that it was sincere, and that my wish and
aim were to absolve her to herself: in fact, in her case, self:
accusation was a chimera.
"At last, she extended her hand.  For the first time, I
wished to take her in my arms and kiss her. I did kiss her
hand many times.
"' Some day we shall be friends again,' she said,' when
you have had time to read my actions and motives in a true
light, and not so horribly to misinterpret them.  Time may
give you the right key to all: then, perhaps, you will comprehend me; and then we shall be reconciled.'
" Farewell drops rolled slow down her cheeks: she wiped
them away.
"'I am sorry for what has happened-deeply sorry,' she
Robbed.  So was I, God knows! Thus were we severed."
" A queer tale!" commented lMIr. Yorke.
" I'll do it no more," vowed his companion: " never more
will mention marriage to a woman, unless I feel love. IHenceforth, Credit and Commerce may take care. of themselves.
Bankruptcy may come when it lists. I have done with slavish
fear of disaster.  I mean to work diligently, wait patiently,
bear steadily. Let the worst come-I will take an ax and
an emigrant's berth, and go out with Louis to the W~est-he
and I have settled it.  No woman shall ever again look at
nme as Miss Keeldar looked-ever again feel toward me as
Miss Keeldar felt: in no woman's presence will I ever again
stand at once such a fool and such a knave —such a brute and
such a puppy."
" Tut!" said the imperturbable Yorke, "you make too much
of it; but still, I say, I am capped: first, that she did not
love you; and, secondly, that you did not love her. You are
both young; you are both handsome; you are both well
enough for wit, and even for temper-take you on the right
tidte: what ailed yea, that you could not agree?"
" We never have been-never coaldd be act honme withi eacl




RUSHEDGE? A CONFESSIONA1.                   475
other, Yorke.  Admire each other as we  might at a distance,
still we jarred when we came very near.  I have sat at one
side of a room and observed her at the other; pethaps in an
excited, genial moment, when she had some of her favorites
round her: her old beaux, for instance, yourself and Helstone,
with whom she is so playful, pleasant, and eloquent. I have
watched her, when she was most natural, most lively, and
most lovely; my juLdgment has pronounced her beautiful:
beautiful she is, ati-tihmes, when her mood and her array paltake of the splendid.  I have drawn a little nearer, feeling
that our terms of acquaintance gave me the right of approach;
I have joined the circle round her seat, caught her eye, and
mastered her attention; then we have conversed; and others
-thinking me, perhaps, peculiarly privileged-have withdrawn by degrees, and left us alone.  Were we happy thus
left l For myself, I must say, no. Always a feeling of constraint came over me; always I was disposed to be stern and
strange.  WVe talked politics and business: no soft sense of
domestic intimacy ever opened our hearts, or thawed our language, and made it flow easy and limpid.  If we had confi
denuces, they were confidences of the counting-house; not of the
hearth.  Nothing in her cherished affection in me-made me
better, gentler: she only stirred my brain and whetted my
acuteness: she never crept into my heart or influenced its
pulse; and for this good reason, no doubt, because I had not
the secret of making her love me."
"Well, lad, it is a queer thing.  I might laugh at thee, and
reckon to despise thy refinements; but as it is dark night and
we are by ourselves, I don't mind telling thee that thy talk
brings back a glimpse of my own past life.  Twenty-five
years ago, I tried to persuade a beautiful woman to love me,
and she would not.  I had not the key to her nature: she
was a stone wall to me, doorless and windowless."
"But you loved her, Yorke: you worshiped Mary Cave:
your conduct after all, was that of a man-never of a fortunu
hunter."
"Ay! I did love her; but then she was beautiful as the
moon we do not see to-night: there is naught like her in these
days: Miss Helstone, maybe, has a look of her, iknt nobody
else. "'
"Who has Z Iolck of hbor A




476                  fSHIRLEY.
" That black-coated tyrant's niece; that quiet, delicate
Miss Helstone.  Many a time I have put on my spectacles
to look at the lassie in church, because she has gentle blue
een. wi' long lashes; and, when she sits in shadow, anc  is
very stilt and very pale, and is, happen, about to fall asleetp
wi' the length of the sermon and the heat of the biggin'-she
is as like one of Canova's marbles as aught else."
" Was Mary Cave in that style?"
"Far grander! Less lass-like and flesh-like.  You wondered why she hadn't wings and a crown. She was a stately, peaceful angel-was my Mary."
"And you could not persuade her to love you?"
"Not with all I could do; though I prayed Heaven many
a time, on my bended knees, to help me."
"' Mary Cave was not what you think her, Yorke- 1 have
seen her picture at the Rectory.  She is no angel, but a fair,
regular-featured, taciturn-looking woman-rather too white
and lifeless for my taste.  But-supposing she had been something better than she was-"
" Robert," interrupted Yorke, "1I could fell you oil' your
horse at this moment. JIowever, I'll hold my hand. Reason
tells me you are right, and I am wrong. I know well enough
that the passion I still have is only the remnant of an illusion.  If Miss Cave had possessed either feeling or sense, she
could not have been so perfectly impassible to my regard as
she showed herself-she must have preferred me to that copper-faced despot."
"Supposing, Yorke, she had been educated (no women were
educated in those days); supposing she had possessed a thoughltful, original mind, a love of knowledge, a wish for inlbrmation, which she took an artless delight in receiving from your
lips, and having measured out to her by your hand; supposing
her conversation-when she sat at your side-was fertile,
varied, imbued with a picturesque grace and genial interest,
quiet-flowing but clear and bounteous; supposing that when
you stood near her by chance, or when you sat near her by
design, comfort at once became your atmosphere, and content
your element; supposing that whenever her face was under
your gaze, or her idea filled your thoughts, you gradually ceatse;]
to be hard and anxious, and pure affection, love of home, thirsi
fbr sweet discourse, unselfish longing to protect anl chaerish




RUSHIEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL.                477
replaced the sordid, cankering calculations of your trade; supj
posing-with all this-that many a time, when you had been
so happy as to possess your Mary's little hand, you had felt it
tremble as you held it-just as a warm little bird trembles
when you take it from its nest; supposing you had noticed
ner shrink into the background on your entrance into a room,
yet if you sought her in her retreat she welcomed you with
the sweetest smile that ever lit a fair virgTin face, and only
turned her eyes from the encounter of your own, lest their
clearness should reveal too much; supposing, in short, your
Mary had been-not cold, but modest; not vacant, but reflective; not obtuse, but sensitive; not inane, but innocent;
not prudish, but pure-would you have left her to court another woinan for her wealth 1"
Mr. Yorke raised his hat, and wiped his forehead with hit
handkerchief.
" The moon is up," was his first not quite relevant remark,
pointing with his whip across the moor. " There she is, rising
into the haze, staring at us wi' a strange red glower. She is
no more silver than old Helstone's brow is ivory.  What does
she mean by leaning her cheek on Rushedge i' that way, anti
looking at us wi' a scowl and a menace?"
"Yorke, if Mary had loved you silently, yet faithfullychastely, yet fervently-as you would wish your wife to love,
would you have left her?"
"Robert!" he lifted his arm: he held it suspended, and
paused. " Robert! this is a queer wirld, and men are made
of the queerest dregs that Chaos churned up in her ferment.
II might swear sounding oaths-oaths that would make the
poachers think there was a bittern booming in Bilberry Moss
-that, in the case you put, Death only should have parted
me from Mary.  But I have lived in the world fifty-five
years; I have been forced to study human nature; and-to
speak a dark truth-the odds are, if Mdary had loved and not
scorned me; if I had been secure of her affection, certain of
her constancy, been irritated by no doubts, stung by no humiliations-the odds are" (he let his hand fall heavy on the saddle)-" the odds are, I shou/d have left her i"
They rode side by side in silence. Ere either spoke again,
they were on the other side of Rtushedge: Briarfiold lights
starred thie purple sekirt of the moor. Robert, bcil:g tho




478                    SH IRLEY.
youngest, and having less of the past to absorb him than his
comrade, recommenced first.
" I believe-I daily find it proved-that we can get nothing in this world worth keeping, not so much as a principle
or a conviction, except out of purifying flame, or through
strengthening peril.  We err; we fall; we are humbledthen we walk more carefully. We greedily eat and drink
poison out of the gilded cup of vice, or from the beggar's wallet of avarice; we are sickened, degraded; every thing good
in us rebels against us; our souls rise bitterly indignant
against our bodies; there is a period of civil war; if the soul
has strength, it conquers and rules thereafter."
" What art thou going to do now, tRobert. W5~hat are thy
plans?"
" For my private plans, I'll keep them to myself; which
is very easy, as at present I have none: no private life is permitted a man in my position, a man in debt. For my public
plans, my views are a little altered. WVhile I was in B3irmingham, I looked a little into reality, considered closely, and
at their source, the causes of the present troubles of this coun
try; I did the same in London. Unknown, I could go where
I pleased, mix with whom I would. I went where there was
want of food, of fuel, of clothing; where there was no occupation and no hope. I saw some, with naturally elevated
tendencies and good feelings, kept down among sordid privations and harassing griefs. I saw many originally low, and
to whom lack of education left scarcely any thing but animal
wants, disappointed in those wants, ahungered, athirst, and
desperate as famished animals: I saw what taught my brain
a new lesson, and filled my breast with fresh feelings. I have
no intention to profess more softness or sentiment than I have
hitherto professed; mutiny and ambition I regard as I have
always regarded them: I should resist a riotous mob just as
heretofore: I should open on the scent of a runaway ringleader as eagerly as ever, and run him down as relentlessly,
and follow him up to condign punishment as rigorously; but
I should do it now chiefly for the sake and the security of
those he misled. Something there is to look to, Yorke, beyond a man's personal interest: beyond the advancement oi
well-laid schemes; beyond even the discharge of dishonoringl
debts. To respect himself, a man must believe he renders




UNCLE AND NIECE.                    479
justice to his fellow-men. Unless I am more considerate to
ignorance, more forbearing to suffering than I have hitherto
been, I shall scorn myself as grossly unjust.  What now X''
he said, addressing his hors,, which, hearing the ripple of water, and feeling thirsty, turned to a way-side trough, where
the moonbeam was playing in a crystal eddy.
" Yorke," pursued Moore, " ride on: I must let him drink."
Yorke accordingly rode slowly forward, occupying himself,
as he advanced, in discriminating, among the many lights
jtow spangling  the distance, those of Briarmains.  Stilbro'
Moor was left behind; plantations rose dusk on either hand;
they were descending the hill; below them lay the valley
with its populous parish: they felt already at home.
Surrounded no longer by heath, it was not startling to Mr.
Yorke to see a hat rise, and to hear a voice speak behind the
wall. The words, however, were peculiar.
"When the wicked perisheth, there is shouting," it said;
and added, "As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no
more" (with a deeper growl); " terrors take hold of him as
waters; hell is naked before him.  He shall die without
knowledge."
A fierce flash and sharp crack violated the calm of night.
Yorke, ere he turned, knew the four convicts of Birmingham
were avenged.
CHAPTEtR XXXI.
UNCLE AND NIECE.
TiHe die was cast.  Sir Philip Nunnely knew it: Shirle?
knew it: Mr. Sympson knew it. That evening, when all the
Fieldhead family dined at Nunnely Priory, decided the busi,ess,
Two or three things conduced to bring the baronet to i,
point. He had observed that Miss Keeldar looked pensive
and delicate.  This new phase in her demeanor smote him
on his weak or poetic side: a spontaneous sonnet brewed ill




480                    H IRLEY.
nms brain; and while it was still working, there, one of his
sisters persuaded his ladye-love to Bit down to the piano:and
sing a ballad-one of Sir Philip's own ballads.  It was thle
least elaborate, the least affected —out of all comparison the
best of his numerous efforts.
It chanced that Shirley, the moment before, had been gaz.
ing from a window down on the park; she had seen that
stormy moonlight which' le Profbesseur Louis" was, perhaps,
at the same instant contemplating from her own oak-parlor
lattice; she had seen the isolated trees of the domain-broad,
strong, spreading oaks, and high-towering heroic beecheswrestling with the gale. Her ear had caught the full roar of
the forest lower down; the swift rushing of clouds, the moon,
to the eye, hasting swifter still, had crossed her vision: she
turned from sight and sound-touched, if not rapt —wakened,
if not inspired.
She sang, as requested.  There was much about love in
the ballad: faithful love that refused to abandon its object,
love that disaster could not shake; love that, in calamity,
waxed fonder, in poverty clung closer. The words were set
to a fine old air-in themselves they were simple and sweet'
perhaps, when read, they wanted force; when well sung, they
wanted nothing. Shirley sang them well: she breathed into
the feeling, softness; she poured round the passion, force: her
voice was fine that evening; its expression dramatic: she
impressed all, and charmed one.
On leaving the instrument, she went to the fire, and sat
downa on a seat —semi-stool, semi-cushion: the ladies were
round her-none of them spoke.  The Mlisses Sympson and
the Misses Nunnely looked upon her, as quiet poultry might
look on an egret, an ibis, or any other strange fowl.  What
made her sing so. They never sang so. Was it p2roper to
sing with such expression, with such originality-so unlike a
school-girl?  Decidedly not: it was strange; it was unusual.
What was strange must be wrong; what was unusual must
be improoper'. Shirley was judged.
Moreover, old Lady Nunnely eyed her stonily fromi her
great chair by the fire-side: her gaze said,
"This woman is not of mine, or my daughters' kind: I obijet to her as my son's wife."
HIer son catching the leok, read its meaning: he grew




UNCLEL' AND NIECE.                 481
alarmed: what he so wished to win, there wads danger he
might lose. He must Nmake haste.
The room they were in hIad once been a pictlure-gallery.
Sir Philip's father —Sir Mlonckton-had converted it into a
saloon; but still it had a shadowy, long-withdrawing  look. A
deep recess with a window-a recess that held one couch, one
table, and a fairy cabinet, formed a room within a room. Two
persons standing there might interchange a dialogue, and, so
it were neither long nor loud, none be the wiser.
Sir Philip induced two of his sisters to perpetrate a duet;
he gave occupation to the Misses Sympson: the elder ladies
were conversing together.  He was pleased to remark that,
meantime, Shirley rose to look at the pictures. He had a tale
to tell about one ancestress, whose dark beauty seemed as
that of a flower of the south: he joined her, and began to
tell it.
There were mementoes of the same lady in the cabinet
adorn iltg the recess; and while Shirley was stooping to examine the missal and the rosary on the inlaid shelf, and while
the Misses Nunnely indulged in a prolonged screech, guiltless
of expression, pure of originality, perfectly conventional and
absolutely unmeaning, Sir Philip stooped too, and whispered a
few hurried sentences. At first, Miss Keeldar was struck so
still, you might have fancied that whisper a charm which had
changed her to a statue; but she presently looked up and
answered. They parted. Miss Keeldar returned to the fire,
and resumed her seat: the baronet looked after her, then
went and stood behind his sisters.  Mr. Sympson-Mr. Sympson only-had marked the pantomime.
That gentleman drew his own conclusions. Had ho been
as acute as he was meddling, as profound as he was prying,
he might have found that in Sir Philip's face whereby to correct his inference. Ever shallow, hasty, and positive, he went
home quite cock-a-hoop.
IHe- was not a man that kept secrets well; when elate on a
aubject, he could not avoid talking about it. The next morning, having occasion to employ his son's tutor as his secretary,
he must needs announce to him, in mouthing accents, and
with much flimsy pomp of manner, that he had better hold
himself prepared for a return to the south at an early day, as
the important buisiness which had detained him (Mr. Syrr,



482                   SItIIRLEY~
son) so long in Yorkshire, was now on the eve of fcrtundto
completion: his anxious and laborious efforts were likely, as
last, to be crowned with the happiest success: a truly eligible
addition was about to be made to the family connections.
a"In Sir Philip Nunnely?" Louis Moore conjectured.
Whereupon Mr. Sympson treated himself simultaneously
to a pinch of snuff and a chuckling laugh, checked only by a
sudden choke of dignity, and an order to the tutor to proceed
with business.
For a day or two, Mr. Sympson continued as bland as oil 
but also he seemed to sit on pins, and his gait, when he walked,
emulated that of a hen treading a hot girdle. He was forever looking out of the window, and listening for chariotwheels: Bluebeard's wife-Sisera's mother-were nothing to
him. He waited when the matter should be opened in form;
when himself should be consulted; when lawyers should be
summoned; when settlement-discussions, and all the delicious
worldly fuss should pompously begin.
At last there came a letter; he himself handed it to Miss
Keeldar out of the bag: he knew the handwriting; he knew
the crest on the seal. He did not see it opened and read, for
Shirley took it to her own room; nor did he see it answered,
for she wrote her reply shut up, and was very long about itthe best part of a day. He questioned her whether it was
answered; she responded " Yes."
Again he waited —waited in silence-absolutely not daring
to speak: kept mute by something in Shirley's face-a very
awful sornething —inscrutable to him as the writing on the
wall to Belshazzar.  He was moved more than once to call
Daniel, in the person of Louis Moore, and to ask an interpretation; but his dignity forbade the familiarity. Daniel
himself, perhaps, had his own private difficulties connected
with that baffling bit of translation: he looked like a student
fobr whom grammars are blank, and dictionaries dumb.
Mr. Sympson had been out, to while away an anxious hour
in the society of his friends at De Walden Hall. He returned
a little sooner than was expected; his family and Miss Keeldar were assembled in the oak-parlor; addressing the latter,
le requested her to step with him into another room: he wished
no have with her a " strictly private interview."




UNCLE AND NIECE.                    483
She Iose, aslikng no questionsand professing no questions, and professing no surprise.
"Very well, sir," she said, in the tone of a determined per.
son, who is infbrmed that the dentist is come to extract that
large double tooth of his, from which he has suffered such a
purgatory this month past. She left her sewing and her thimble in the window-seat, and followed her uncle where he led.
Shut into the drawing-room, the pair took seats, each in an
arm-chair, placed opposite, a few yards between them.
" I have been to De Walden Hall," said Mr. Sympson. He
paused.  Miss Keeldar's eyes were on the pretty white and
green carpet.  That information required no response: she
gave none.
"I have learned," he went on, slowly, "I have learned a
circumstance which surprises me."
Resting her cheek on her forefinger, she waited to be told
what circumstance.
" It seems that Nunnely Priory is shut up; that the family
are gone back to their place in    -shire. It seems that the
baronet-that the baronet-that Sir Philip himself has ac
companied his mother and sisters."
"Indeed!" said Shirley.
"May I ask if you share the amazement with which I received this news?"
"No, sir."
" Is it news to you?"
" Yes, sir."
"I mean-I mean-" pursued Mr. Sympson, now fidget
ing in his chair, quitting his hitherto brief and tolerably cleal
phraseology, and returning to his customary wordy, confused,
irritable style: "I mean to have a thorough explanation.  I
will not be put off. I-I-shall insist on being heard; and
on-on having my own way. My questions must be answered. I will have clear, satisfactory replies. I am not to be
trifled with.  Silence!
"It is a strange and an extraordinary thing-a very singular-a most odd thing! I thought all was right: knew rnc
other: and there —the family are gone!"
"I suppose, sir, they had a right to go."
"Sir Philip is gonze!" (with emphasis).
Shirley raised her brows: " Bon voyage!" said she.
" This will not do: this must be altered, ma'amn."
X*




484                  SHI RLEY.
He drew his chair forward; he pushed it back; le looked
perfectly incensed, and perfectly helpless.
" Come, come, now, uncle," expostulated Shirley, " do not
begin to fret and fume, or we shall make no sense of the business. Ask me what you want to know: I am as willing to
come to an explanation as you: I promise you truthful replies."
"I want-I demand to know, Miss Keeldar, whether Sir
Philip has made you an offer?"
"lie has."
" You avow it 1"
"I avow it. But now, go on: consider that point settled.'
*' He made you an offir that night we dined at the Priory?"
"It is enough to say that he made it.  Go on."
"iHe proposed in the recess —in the room that used to be a
picture-gallery-that Sir Monckton converted into a saloon V"
No answer.
" You were both examining a cabinet: I saw it all: ray
sagacity was not at fault-it never is. Subsequently, you received a letter from him. On what subject-of what nature
were the contents?"
" No matter."
"Ma'am, is that the way in which you speak to me'"
Shirley's foot tapped quick on the carpet.
" There you sit, silent and sullen-you who promised truthfual replies i'
"Sir, T have answered you thus far: proceed."
" I should like to see that letter."
"You can not see it."
"I must and shall, ma'am.  I am your guardian."
"' Having ceased to be a ward, I have no guardian."
" Ungrateful being! Reared by me as my own daughter —"
"Once more, uncle, have the kindness to keep to the point.
Let us both remain cool. For my part, I do not wish to get
into a passion; but, you know, once drive me beyond certain
bounds, I care little what I say: I am not then soon chclced.
Listen. You have asked me whether Sir Philip made me an
offir: that question is answered. What do you wish to know
next'"
"I desire to know whether you accepted or refused him la —
and know it I will."
"Certainly: yor ought to know it.  I refused hin."




UNCLE AND NIECE.                   485
"iRefused him! You-y-!ou, Shirley Keeldar, refused Sit
Philip Nunnely I"
"6 I did."
The poor gentleman bounced from his chair, and first rusnh
ea, and then trotted, through the room.
"There it is! There it is! There it is!"
"' Sincerely speaking, I am sorry, uncle, your are so disappointed."
Concession-contrition-never do any good with some, peo.
ple. Instead of softening and conciliating, they but embolden
and harden them: of that number was Mr. Sympson.
"I disappointed! What is it to me  tIHave I an interest
in it? You would insinuate, perhaps, that I have motives?"
" Most people have motives, of some sort, for their actions."
" She accuses me to my face! I-that have been a parent
to her-she charges with bad motives!"
" Bad motives, I did not say."
"And now you prevaricate. You have no principles!"
" Uncle, you tire me: I want to go away."
"Go you shall not  I will be answered.  What are voen
intentions, Miss Keeldar?"
" In what respect?"
" In respect of matrimony."
" To be quiet- and do just as I please."'"-ust as you please  The words are to the last degree
indecorous."
" Mr. Sympson, I advise you not to become insulting: you
know, I will not bear that."
" You read French.  Your mind is poisoned with French
novels. You have imbibed French principles."
" The ground you are treading now returns a mighty hollow
sound under your feet. Beware!"
" It will end in infamy, sooner or later: I have foreseen it
all along."
" Do you assert, sir, that something in which I am coriL
cerned will end in infamy?"
" That it will-that it will. You said just now you would
act as you please. You acknowledge no rules-no limitations."
"Silly stuff! and vulgar as silly!"' Regardless of decorum, you are prepared to fly in the face
of propriety."




486                  SHIR8LEY.
"You tire me, uncle."
"What, madam-what could be your reasons for refusis
Sir Philip?"
4"At last there is another sensible question: I shall be glad
to reply to it.  Sir Philip is too young fibr me: I regard him
as a boy: all his relations-his mother, especially-would be
annoyed if he married me: such a step would embroil him
wvith them: I am not his equal in the world's estimation."
" Is that all?"
"Our dispositions are not compatible."
" Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed."
" HIe is very amiable-very excellent —truly estimable, but
not ny master: nQt in one point.  I could not trust myself
wltlihisi   happiness; I would not undertake the keeping of it
for thousands: I will accept no hand which can not hold me
in check."
"I thought you liked to do as you please: you are vastly
inconsistent."
"VWhen I promise to obey, it shall be under the conviction
that I can keep that promise: I could not obey a youth like
Sir Philip.  Besides, he would never command me: he would
expect me always to rule —to guide, and I have no taste
whatever for the office."
" You no taste for swaggering, and subduing, and ordering,
and ruling?"
" Not my husband: only my uncle."
" Where is the difference?"
"There is a slight difference: that is certain.  And I know
full well, any man who wishes to live in decent comfort with
me as a husband must be able to control me."
"I wish you had a real tyrant."
"A tyrant would not hold me for a day-not for an hour
I would rebel-break from him-defy him."
"Are you not enough to bewilder one's brain with your
self-contradiction i"
" It is evident I bewilder your brain."
"You talk of Sir Philip being young: he is two-and-twenty."
" My husband must be thirty, with the sense of forty."
"You had better pick out some old man-some white
headed or bald-headed swain.'
" >No, thank yois.'




UNCLE AND NIECEl.                  487
"You could lead some doting fool: you might pin him to
your apron."
"I might do that with a boy; but it is not my vocation.
Did I not say I prefer a master?  One in whose presence 1
Shall feel obliged and disposed to be good. One whose control my impatient temper must acknowledge. A man whose
approbation can reward-whose displeasure punish me. A
man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very possible
to fear."
" What is there to hinder you from doing all this with Sir
Philip?  He is a baronet; a man of rank, property, connections, far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is a poet
he writes verses; which you, I take it, can not do, with all
your cleverness."
" Neither his title, wvealth, pedigree, nor poetry, avail to
invest him with the power I describe. These are featherweights: they want ballast: a measure of sound, solid, practical sense, would have stood him in better stead with mse."
" You and Henry rave about poetry: you used to catch fire
like tinder on the subject when you were a girl."
" Oh! uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world,
there is nothing glorious in the world to come, that is not
poetry!"
"Marry a poet, then, in God's name
"Show him me, and I will."
"Sir Philip."
" Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he."
"Madam, you are wandering from the point."
" Indeed, uncle, I wanted to do so; and I shall be glad to
lead you away with me. Do not let us get out of tempel
with each other: it is not worth while."
c" Out of temper, Miss Keeldar! I should be glad to know
who is out of temper?"
" I am not, yet."
"If you mean to insinuate that I am, I consider that you
are guilty of impertinence."'You will be soon, if you go on at that rate."
"There it is! With your pert tongue, you would try the
patience of a Job."
"I know I should."
"No levity miss! This is not a laughing matter.  It ia




438                   SHIRLEY.
an affair I am resolved to probe thoroughly, convinced thlei
there is mischief at the bottom. You described just now, with
far too much freedom for your years and sex, the sort of individual you would prefer as a husband.  Pray, did you paint
firom the life?"
Shirley opened her lips; but instead of speaking, she only
glowed rose-red.
"I shall have an answer to that question," affirmed Mr.
Sympson, assuming vast courage and consequence on the
strength of this symptom of confusion.
"It was an historical picture, uncle, from several orig —
inals."'Several originals! Bless my heart!"
" I have been in love several times."
" This is cynical."
" With heroes of many nations."
"W' hat next?":' And philosophers."
" She is mad!"
"Don't ring the bell, uncle; you will alarm my aunt."
"Your poor dear aunt, what a niece has she!"
"Once I loved Socrates."
"Pooh! iNo trifling, ma'am."
"I admired Themistocles, Leonidas, Epaminacndas."
"Miss Keeldar-"
"To pass over a few centuries, Washington was a plait
man, but I liked him: but, to speak of the actual present-"
" Ah! the actual present."
" To quit crude school-girl fancies, and come to realities."
"' Realities!  That is the test to which you shall bE
brought, ma'am."
" To avow before wLat altar iZ now kneel-to reveal the
present idol of my soul-"
"You will make haste about it, if' you please; it is nena
luncheon time, and confess you shall."
" Confess, I must: my heart is full of the secret; it must
be spoken: I only wish you were Mr. Helstone instead cf
Mr. Sympson, you would sympathize with me better."
" Madam  it is a question of common sense and common
prudence, not of sympathy and sentiment, and so on. Did
you say it was Mr. Helstone?"




UNCLE AND NIECE.                   489
"Not precisely, but as near as may be: they are rather
alike."
" I will know the name-I will have particulars."
" They positively are rather alike; their very faces are not
dissimilar-a pair of human falcons-and dry, direct, decided
both. But my hero is the mightier of the two: his mind has
the clearness of the deep sea, the patience of its rocks, the force
of its billows."
"Rant and fustian!"
"I dare say he can be harsh as a saw-edge, and gruff as a
hungry raven."
"Miss Keeldar, does the person reside in Briarfield? answer
me that."
"Uncle, I am going to tell you-his name is trembling on
my tongue."
" Speak, girl!"
"That was well said, uncle.'Speak, girl!' it is quite
tragic. England has howled savagely against this man, uncle;
and she will one day roar exultingly over him. He has been
unscared by the howl, and he will be unelated by the shout."
"I said she was mad-she is."
"This country will change and change again in her de
ineanor to him: he will never change in his duty to her
Come, cease to chafe, uncle, I'll tell you his name."
"kYou shall tell me, or —"
"Listen! Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington."
Mr. Sympson rose up furious: he bounced out of the room
but immediately bounced back again, shut the door, and re
sumed his seat.
"] Ma'am, you shall tell me this: will your principles per
anit you to marry a man without money -a man below you?'
" Never a man below me."
(In a high voice.) "Will you, Miss Keeldar, marry a posa
nan?"
"What right have you, Mr. Sympson, to ask me?"
" I insist upon knowing."
"You don't go the way to know."
"My family respectability shall not be Compromised'
"A good resolution: keep it."
"Madam, it is qyou who shall keep it."
"Impossible, sir, since I form no part of your family




490                  SI- IRLEY.
"IDo you disown us?"
"I disdain your dictatorship."
" Whom wvill you marry, Miss Keeldar?"
"Not Mr. Sam Wynne, because I scorn him: not Six Philip
Nunnely, because I only esteem him."
" Whom have you in your eye?"
" Four rejected candidates."
" Such obstinacy could not be, unless you were under iimproper influence."
" What do you mean? There are certain phrases potent to
make my blood boil-improper influence! What old woman's
cackle is that?"
"Are you a young lady?"
"I am a thousand times better: I am an honest woman,
and as such I will be treated."
" Do you know (leaning mysteriously forward, and speaking
with ghastly solemnity), "do you know the whole neighborhood teams with rumors respecting you and a bankrupt tenant
of yours-the foreigner Moore?"
"Does it?"
"It does. Your name is in every mouth."
" It honors the lips it crosses, and I wish to the gods it may
purify them."
" Is it that person who has power to influence you?"
"Beyond any whose cause you have advocated."
"Is it he you will marry."
" HIe is handsome, and manly, and commanding."
"You declare it to my face. The Flemish knave! The
low trader!"
"He is talented, and venturous, and resolute. Prince is onI
his brow, and ruler in his bearing."
"She glories in it! She conceals nothing! No shame, no
fear!"
" When we speak the name of Moore, shame should be forgotten and fear discarded: the Moores know only honor and
courage."
"I say she is mad."
"You have taunted me till my blood is up. You have
worried me till I turn again."
" That Moore is the brother of my son's tutor  Would you
let the Usher call you Siter?"




UNCLE AND NIECE.                    491
Bright and broad shone Shirley's eye, as she fixed it on hel
questiont r now.
" No: no. Nlot for a province of possession-not for a cell
tury of life."
"You can not separate the husband from his family."
" What, then?"
" Mr. Louis Moore's sister you will be."
"Mr. Sympson.              I am sick at heart with all
this weak trash: I will bear no more. Your thouchts are not
my thoughts, your aims are not my aims, your gods are not my
gods. We do not view things in the same light; we do not
measure them by the same standard; we hardly speak in the
same tongue. Let us part.
"It is not," she resumed, much excited; "it is not that 1
hate you; you are a good sort of man: perhaps you mean well
in your way; but we can not suit: we are ever at variance.
You annoy me with small meddling, with petty tyranny; you
exasperate my temper, and make and keep me passionate.
As to your small maxims, your narrow rules, your little preju.L
dices, aversions, dogmas, bundle them off: Mr. Sympson —go,
offer them a sacrifice to the deity you worship; I'll none of
them: I wash my hands of the lot. I walk by another creed,
light, faith, and hope than you."
"Another creed! I believe she is an infidel."
"An infidel to your religion; an atheist to your god."
",An-atheist!!!"
" Your god, sir, is the World.  In my eyes, you too, if not
an infidel, are an idolater: I conceive that you ignorantly worship: in all things you appear to me too superstitious. Sir,
your god, your great Bel, your fish-tailed Dagon, rises before
me as a demon. You, and such as you, have raised him to a
throne, put on him a crown, given him a scepter. Behold
how hideously he governs! See him busied at the work he
likes best-making marriages. He binds the young to the
old, the strong to the imbecile. He stretches out the arm of
Mezentius, and fetters the dead to the living. In his realm
there is hatred-secret hatred: there is disgust-unspoken disgust: there is treachery-family treachery: there is vicedeep, deadly, domestic vice. In his dominions children grow
unloving between parents who have never loved: infants are
uusred on deception from their very birth; they are reared in




492                   SHIRLEY.
tan atmosphere corrupt with lies. Your god rules at the brida
of kings —look at your royal dynasties! your deity is the deity
of foreign aristocracies-analyze the blue blood of Spain! Your
god is the I-Iyrnen of France-what is French domestic life 
All that surrounds him hastens to decay: all declines and dogenerates under his scepter.  Youzr god is a masked Death."
"This language is terrible! MAy daughters and you must
associate no longer, Miss Keeldar: there is danger in such
companionship. iad I known you a little earlier-but, extraordinary as I thought you, I could not have believed-"
"INow, sir, do you begin to be aware that it is useless to
scheme for me? That, in doing so, you but sow the'wind to
reap the whirlwind? I sweep your cobweb-projects from my
path, that I may pass on unsullied. I am anchored on a resolve you can not shake.  My heart, my conscience shall dispose of my hand-they on7zy.  Know this at last."
Mr. Syrnpson was becoming a little bewildered.
"Never heard such language!" he muttered again and
again.  "Never was so addressed in my life-never was sc
used."
" You are quite confused, sir.  You had better withdraw,
er I will."
I-e rose hastily.
"' We must leave this place: they must pack up at once.'
"' Do not hurry my aunt and cousins: give them time."
" No more intercourse: she's not proper."
He made his way to the door; he came back for his handkerchief; he dropped his snuff-box: leaving the contents seattered on the carpet, he stumbled out: Tartar lay outside
rJross the mat —Mr. Sympson almost fell over him: in the
climax of his exasperation he hurled an oath at the dog, and
a coarse epithet at his mistress.
"Poor Mr. Syrupson! IHe is both feoble and vulgar," said
Shirley to herself.  " My head aches, and I am tired," she
added; and leaning her head upon a cushion, she softly subsided from excitement to repose.  One, entering the room a
quarter of an hour afterward, found her asleep. When Shirley had been agitated, she generally took this natural refresh
ment: it would come at her call.
The intruder paused in her unconscious presence, and said.
"Miss Keeldar."




UNCLE AND  NIECE                     493
Perhaps his voice harmonized with some dream into wicl
she was passing'-it did not startle, it hardly roused her: witlh
out opening her eyes, she but tburned her head a little, so thl.a
her cheek and profile, before hidden by her arm, became visible: she looked rosy, happy, half smiling, but her eyelashes
-were wet: she had wept in slumber; or perhaps, before dropping asleep, a few natural tears had fallen after she had heard
that epithet: no man —no woman is always strong, always
able to bear up against the unjust opinin-the vilifying word
calumny, even from the mouth of a fbol, will sometimes cut
aito unguarded feelings.  Shirley looked like a child that
had been naughty and punished, but was now forgiven and
at rest.
"Miss Keelda-r," again said the voice: this time it woke
her; she looked up and saw at her side Louis Moore-not
-lose at her side, but standing, with arrested step, two or three
yards from her.
"Oh, Mr. Moore!" she said; "I was afraid it was my
nncle again: he and I have quarreled."
" Mr. Sympson should let you alone," was the reply: " can
he not see that you are as yet far from strong?"
"I assure you he did not find me weak: I did not cry when
he was here."
"' He is about to evacuate Fieldhead-so he says.  He is
now giving orders to his family: he has been in the schoolroomt issuing commands in a manner which, I suppose, was a
continuation of that with which he has harassed you."
"Are you and Henry to go?"
"'  believe, as far as Henry is concerned, that was the tenor
r, hiis scarcely-intelligible directions; but he may change all
t,-morrow: he is just in that mood when you canll not depend
on his consistency for two consecutive hours: I doubt whether
he will leave you for weeks yet.  To myself he addressed some
words which will require a little attention and comment byand-by, when I have time to bestow on them.  At the moment he came in, I was busied with a note I had got from
Mr. Yorke-so fully busied. that I cut short the interviews
with him somewhat abruptly.  I left him raving: here is the
note-I wish you to see it-it refers to my brother Robert.'"
And he looked at Shirlev.
" I shall b glad to hear news of him  is lhe coming home?'




494                  GSHIRLEY
He is come: he is in Yorkshire: Mr. Yorke went yestce
day to Stilbro' to meet him."
"Mr. Moore-something is wrong!"
" Did my voice tremble? I-Ie is now at 13riarmains-and
I am going to see him."
"What has occurred?"
"If you turn so pale I shall be sorry I have spoken. It
might have been worse: Robert is not dead, but much hurt."
"Oh! sir; it is you who are pale. Sit down near me."
R' ead the note-let me open it."
Miss Keeldar read the note: it briefly signified that last
night Robert Moore had been shot at from behind the wall
of Milldean plantation,, at the foot of the brow; that he was
wounded severely, but it was hoped not fatally: of the assassin, or assassins, nothing was known-they had escaped.
"No doubt," Mr. Yorke observed, "it was done in revenge:
it was a pity ill-will had ever been raised; but that could not
be helped now."
" He is my only brother," said Louis, as Shirley returned
the note.  " I can not hear unmoved that ruffians have laid
in wait for him, and shot him down like some wild beast from
behind a wall."
" Be comforted: be hopeful. He will get better-I know
he will."
Shirley, solicitous to soothe, held her hand over Mr. Moore's
as it lay on the arm of the chair: she just touched it lightly,
scarce palpably.
"' Well, give me your hand," he said; "it will be for the
first time: it is in a moment of calamity-give it me."
Awaiting neither consent nor refusal, he took what he
asked.
"I am going to Briarmains now," he went on.  "I want
you to step over to the rectory, and tell Caroline Helstone
what has happened: will you do this? she will hear it best
from you."
"Immediately," said Shirley, with docile promptitude' Ought I to say that there is no danger?"
"Say so."
"You will come back soon, and let me know more?"
"I will either come or write."
"' Trust me for watching over Caroline.  I will commumn




TIE SCHUOOu-BOY AND WOO)D-NYMPtIL  495
cate with your sister, too; but, doubtless, she is already with
globert?"
"Doubtless; or will be soon. Good-morning, now"
"You will bear up, come what may?"
"We shall see that."
Shirley's fingers were obliged to withdraw from the tutor's.
Louis was obliged to relinquish that hand folded, clasped,
hidden in his own.
"I thought I should have had to support her," he said, as
he walked toward Briarmains, " and it is she who has made
me strong. That look of pity-that gentle touch! No down
was ever softer —no elixir more potent! It lay like a snowflake: it thrilled like lightning. A thousand times I have
longed to possess that hand-to have it in mine. I have possessed it-for five minutes I held it. IHer fingers and mine
can never be strangers more-having met once, they mus*,
meet again."
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE SCIHOOL-BOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPII.
BrAlrnAINs being nearer than the Hollow, Mr. Yorke had
conveyed his young comrade there. He had seen him laid in
the best bed of the house, as carefully as if he had been one
of his own sons. The sight of his blood, welling from the
treacherously-inflicted wound, made him indeed the son of the
Yorkshire gentleman's heart.  The spectacle of the sudden
event; of the tall, straight shape prostrated in its pride across
the road; of the fine southern head laid low in the dust; of
that youth in prime flung at once before him pallid, lifeless,
helpless-this was the very combination of circumstances to
win for the victim Mr. Yorke's liveliest interest.
No other hand was there to raise-to aid; no other voice
to question kindly; no other brain to concert measures: he
had to do it all himself.  This utter dependence of the speechless, bleeding youth (as a youth he regarded him) on his bet




49.6                  S HI RL E Y
nevolencee, secured that benevolence  oast effectually. Wel,
did Mr. Yorke like to have power, and to use it: he had now
between his hands, power over a fellow-creature's life: it
suited him.
No less perfectly did it suit his saturnine better half: the
incident was quite in her way, and to her taste.  Some women
would have been terror-struck to see a gory man brought in
cver their threshold, and laid down in their hall in the "howe
of the night." There, you would suppose, was subject-mattex
for hysterics.  No: Mrs. Yorke went into hysterics whee
Jessie would not leave the garden to come to her knitting, oe
when Martin proposed starting for Australia, with a view tc
realize freedom, and escape the tyranny of Matthew; but an
attempted murder near her door-a half-murdered man in her
best bed —set her straight, cheered her spirits, gave her cal,
the dash of a turban.
Mrs. Yorke was just the woman who, while rendering mis
erable the drudging life of a simple maid-servant, would nutrs
like a heroine a hospital full of plague patients.;:he almost
loved Moore: her tough heart almost yearned to-yard him,
when she found him committed to her charge-icft in hei
arms as dependent on her as her youngest-born in the cradle,
I-lad she seen a domestic, or one of her daughters, give him a
draught of water, or smooth his pillow, she would have boxed
the intruder's ears.  She chased Jessie and RLose from the
upper realm of the house: she forbade the housemaids to set
their foot in it.
Now, if the accident had happened at the rectory gates,
and old Helstone had taken in the martyr, neither Yorke nor
his wife would have pitied him: they would have adjudged
him right served for his tyranny and meddling: as it was, he
became, for the present, the apple of their eye.
Strange! Louis Moore was permitted to come-to sit down
on the edge of the bed, and lean over the pillow-to hold his
brother's hand, and press his pale forehead with his fraternal
lips: and Mrs. Yorke bore it well.  She suffered him to stay
half the day there; she once suffered him to sit up all night
in the chamber; she rose herself at five o'clock of a wet No.
vetmber morning, and with her own hands lighted the kitchen
fire, and made the brothers a breakfast, and served it to thenm
herecl[.  Majestically arrayed in a boundless flannel wralppc,'




THE  SCHOOL-BOY  AND WOOD-NYNMPH,  497
a shawl, and her night-cap, sh sat and watched themn eat ah
complacently as a hen beholds her chickens feed.  Yet she
gave the cook warning that day for venturing to make and
carry up to Mr. Moore a basin of sago-gruel; and the housemaid lost her favor because, when Mr. Louis was departing,
she brought him his surtout aired from the kitchen, and, like
a "forward piece," as she was, helped him on with it, and
accepted, in return, a smile, a " thank you, my gill," and a
shilling. Two ladies called one day, pale and anxious, and
begged earnestly, humbly, to be allowed to see Mr. M~[oore
one instant: Mrs. Yorke hardened her heart, and sent them
packing-not without opprobrium.
But how was it when Heortense Moore came?  Not so bad
as might have been expected: the whole family of the lMoores
really seemed to suit Mrs. Yorke so as no other family had
ever suited her. Hortense and she possessed an exhaustless
mutual theme of conversation in the corrupt propensities of
servants. Their views of this class were similar: they
watched them with the same suspicion, and judged them with
the same severity. I-Hortense, too, from the very first, showed
no manner of jealousy of 1Mrs. Yorke's attentions to Robert
she let her keep the post of nurse with little interference; and,
for herself, found ceaseless occupation in fidgeting about tho
house, holding the kitchen under surveillance, reporting what
passed there, and, in short, making herself generally useful.
Visitors they both of them agreed in excluding sedulously from
the sick-room.  They held the young mill-owner captive, and
hardly let the air breathe or the sun shine on him.
Mr. MacTurk, the surgeon to whom Mtoore's case had been
committed, pronounced his wound of a dangerous, but, he
trusted, not of a hopeless character. At first, he wished to
place with him a nurse of his own selection; but this neither
Mrs. Yorke nor Hortense would hear of: they promised faithful observance of directions.  He was left, therefore, for the
present, in their hands.
Doubtless, they executed the trust to the best of their abil
ity; but something got wrong: the bandages were displaced,
or tampered with; great loss of blood followed.  Ml[acTurk,'einm  summoned, came with steed afoapl. Ite was one of
those surgeons whom it is dangerous to vex: abrupt in hii
best nmoods; in his worst, savage.  On seeing f  oo.re's state




498                   SHIRLEY.
he relieved his feelings by a little flowery language, wlti
which it is not necessary to strew the present page. A bouquet or two of the choicest blossoms fell on the unperturbed
head of one Mr. Graves, a stony young assistant he usually
carried about with him; with a second nosegay he gifted another young gentleman in his train: an interesting fac-sirnile
of himself, being, indeed, his own son; but the full corbeille
of blushing bloom fell to the lot of meddling womankind, en
masse.
For the best part of one winter night, himself and satellites
were busied about Moore. There, at his bedside, shut up
alone with him in his chamber, they wrought and wrangled
over his exhausted frame. They three were on one side of
the bed, and Death on the other.  The conflict was sharp:
it lasted till day broke, when the balance between the belligerents seemed so equal that both parties might have claimed
the victory.
At dawn, Graves and young MacTurk were left in charge
of the patient, while the senior went himself in search of additional strength, and secured it in the person of Mrs. Horsfall, the best nurse on his staff. To this woman he gave
Moore in charge, with the sternest injunctions respecting the
responsibility laid on her shoulders. She took this responsibility stolidly, as she did also the easy chair at the bed-head,
That moment she began her reign.
Mrs. Horsfall had one virtue-orders received from MacTurk she obeyed to the letter; the Ten Commandments wero
less binding in her eyes than her surgeon's dictum. In other
respects, she was no woman, but a dragon. I-Iortense Moore
fell effaced before her; Mrs. Yorke withdrew —crushed: yet
both these women were personages of some dignity in their
own estimation, and of some bulk in the estimation of others.
Perfectly cowed by the breadth, the height, the bone, and the
brawn of Mrs. Horsfall, they retreated to the back parlor.
She, for her part, sat up stairs when she liked, and down
stairs when she preferred it: she took her dram three tinles
a day, and her pipe of tobacco four times.
As to Moore, no one now ventured to inquire about him:
TMrs. Horsfall had him at dry-nurse: it was she who was to
do for him; and the general cjccture now ran that she did
for hirm accordingly.




THIE SC HO OL-BOY AND WOOD-NYMPH.  499
Morning and evening MacTurk came to see him: his case,
thus complicated by a new mischance, was become one of
interest in the surgeon's eyes: he regarded him as a damaged
piece of clock-work, which it would be creditable to his skill
to set agoing again.  Graves and young MacTurk-Moore's
sole other visitors-contemplated him in the light in -which
Ihey were wont to contemplate the occupant for the time being of the dissecting-room at Stillbro' Infirmary.
Robert Moore had a pleasant time of it: in pain; in danger; too weak to move; almost too weak to speak; a sort of
giantess his keeper; the three surgeons his sole society. Thus
he lay through the diminishing days and lengthening inights
of the whole drear month of November.
In the commencement of his captivity, Moore used feebly
to resist Mrs. Horsfall: he hated the sight of her rough bulk,.and dreaded the contact of her hard hands; but she taught
him docility in a trice. She made no account whatever of'
his six feet-his manly thews and sinews: she turned him in
his bed as another woman would have turned a babe in its
cradle.  Wahen he wvas good, she addressed him  as "my
dear," and " honey;" and when he was bad, she sometimes
shook him.  Did he attempt to speak when MacTurk was
there, she lifted her hand and bade him  "hush!" like a
nurse checkinfg a forward child.  If she had not smoked-if
she had not taken gin, it would have been better, he thought;
but she did both.  Once-in her absence-he intimated to
MacTurk that " that woman was a dram-drinker."
" Pooh! my dear sir; they are all so," was the reply he
got for his pains.  " But HIorsfall has this virtue,' added the
surgeon-" drunk or sober, she always remembers to obey nme."
At length the latter aut'umn passed: its fogs, its mains,
withdrew from England their mourning and their tears; its
winds swept on to sigh over lands far away.  Behind Novemnber came deep winter; clearness, stillness, frost accompanying.
A calm  day had settled into a  Yrystalline evening; the
world wore a North Pole coloring. all its lights and tints
looked like the "refiets"* of white, or violet, or pale green
gems.  The hills wore a lilac-blue; the setting sun had pur.
" Find rne an English word as good, reader, and I will gladly di?
pensse with the French word. Reflections won't do.
Y




500                   61 I RLE Y.
ple in its red; the sky was ice, all silvered Azure; ~when th&
stars rose, they were of white crystal-not gold; gray, oi
oerulean, or faint emerald hues-cool, pure, and transparent
-tinged the mass of the landscape.
What is this by itself in a wood no longer green, no longer
wven russet; a wood, neutral tint-this dark blue moving obiect?  Why, it is a school-boy-a Briarfield grammar-schoolboy-who has left his companions, now trudging home by the
high road, and is seeking a certain tree, with a certain mossy
mound at its root-convenient as a seat.  Why is he lingering here? the air is cold, and the time wears late. IHe sits
down: what is he thinking about? Does he feel the chaste
charm nature wears to-night? A pearl-white moon smiles
through the gray trees. Does he care for her smile?
Impossible to say; for he is silent, and his countenance
does not speak: as yet, it is no mirror to reflect sensation, but
rather a mask to conceal it.  This boy is a stripling of fifteen
-slight and tall of his years; in his face there is as little of
amenity as of servility: his eye seems prepared to note any
incipient attempt to control or overreach him, and the rest of
his features indicate faculties alert for resistance.  Wise
ushers avoid unnecessary interference with that lad.  T'I'
break him in by severity would be a useless attempt; to win
him by flattery would be an effort worse than useless.  He
is best let alone. Time will educate, and experience train
him.
Professedly, Martin Yorke (it is a young Yorle, of course)
tramples on the name of poetry: talk sentiment to him, and
rou would be answered by sarcasm. Here he is, wandering
done, waiting duteously on Nature, while she unfolds a page
of stern, of silent, and of solemn poetry, beneath his attentive
gaze.
Being seated, he takes from his satchel a book-not the
Latin grammar, but a contraband volume of Fairy tales;
there will be light enough yet for an hour to serve his keen
young vision: besides, the moon waits on him-her beam,
dim and vague as yet, fills the glade where he sits.
He reads: he is led into a solitary mountain region; all
round himn is rude and desolate, shapeless, and almost color
less. He hears bells tinkle on the wind; forth-riding from
thle formless f ids of' the mist, dawns on him  the brightes!




T[ E  SCHOOL-BOX  AND WOOD-NYIMPtI.  501
vrslon-a green-robed lady, on. a snow-white palfrey; he sees
her dress, her gems, and her steed; she arrests him with some
mysterious question: he is spell-bound, and must follow her
into Fairy land.
A. second legend bears him to the sea-shore: there tumbles
in a strong tide, boiling at the base of dizzy clifls: it rains and
blows.  A reef of rocks, black and rough, stretches far illtc
the sea; all along, and among, and above these crags, dash
and flash, sweep and leap, swells, wreaths, drifts of snowy
spray. Some lone wanderer is out on these rocks, treading,
with cautious step, the wet, wild sea-weed; glancing down
into hollows where the brine lies fathoms deep and emeraldclear, and seeing there wilder, and stranger, and huger vegetation than is found on land, with treasure of shells —sore
green, some purple, some pearly —clustered in the curls of the
snaky plants.  He hears a cry.  Looking up, and forward
he sees, at the bleak point of the reef, a tall, pale thingshaped like man, but made of spray-transparent, tremulous,
awfiul: it stands not alone: they are all human figures that
wanton in the rocks-a crowd of foam-women —a band of'
white, evanescent Nereides.
Hush! Shut the book: hide it in the satenel.  Martin
hears a tread.  He listens: No-Yes.  Once more, the dead
leaves, lightly crushed, rustle on the wood-path.  Martin
watches: the trees part, and a woman issues forth.
She is a lady dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her face
Martin never met a lady in this wood before-nor any female,
save, now and then, a village-girl come to gather nuts.  Tonight, the apparition does not displease him.  He observes, as
she approaches, that she is neither old nor plain, but, on the
contrary, very youthful; tnd, but that he now recognizes her
for one whom he has often willfully pronounced ugly, he would
deem that he discovered traits of beauty behind the thin gauze
of that veil.
She passes him, and says nothing.  He knew she would:
all women are proud monkeys-and he knows no more conceited doll than that Caroline HIelstone.  The thought is
hardly hatched in his mind, when the lady retraces those two
steps she had got beyond him, and, raising her veil, reposes
hter glance on his face, while she softly asks:
" Are you one of Mr. Yorke's sons'"




O2502                  9ISHR! LEY.
No humail evidence would ever have been able to persuade
Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed; yet blush
he did, to the ears.
" I am," he said, bluntly; and encouraged himself to won
der, superciliously, what would come next.
"You are Martin, I think?" was the observation that fol.
lowed.
It eoul, l not have been more felicitous: it was a sinlple sen
tence-very artlessly, a little timidly, pronounced; but it
chimed in harmony to the youth's nature: it stilled him like
a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his personality: he felt it right
and sensible that the girl should discriminate him from his
brothers.  Like his father, he hated ceremony: it was acceptable to hear a lady address him as "i Martin," and not Mr.
Martin, or MIaster Martin, which form would have lost hel
his good graces forever.  Worse, if' possible, than ceremony,
was the other extreme of slipshod familiarity: the slight tone
of bashfulness-the scarcely-perceptible hesitation-was considered perfectly in place.
" I am'lartin," he said.
" Are your father and mother well?"-(it was lucky she
did not say lpapa and 9n2bvzqca: that would have undone all'I
-" and 1Rose and Jessie 2"' I suppose so."
"My Cousin Hortense is still at Briarmains?"
"Oh, yes!"
Martin gave a comic half smile and demi-groan: the halt
emile was responded to by the lady, who could guess in what
sort of odor Hortense was likely to be held by the young
Yorkoes.
"Does your mother like her?"
"They suit so well about the servants, they can't help liking each other."
"It is cold to-night."
"Why are you out so late?"
"I lost my way in this wood."
Now, indeed, Miartin allowed himself a refreshing laugh of
acorn.
" Lost your way in the mighty forest of Briarmain! Yeo
ieserve never more to find. it."




THE  SCHOOL-BOY  AND  WOOD-NYMPH.  593
"I never was here before, and I believe I amr. trespassing
nowM: you mlight informl against me if you chose, Martin, and
have me fined: it is your father's wood."
"I should think I knew that; but since you are so simple
as to lose your way, I will guide you out."
"You need not: I have got into the track now: I shall be
right.  Martin" (a little quickly), " how is Mr. Moore?"
Martin had heard certain rumors: it struck him that it
mfight be amusing to make an experiment.
"Going to die. Nothing can save him   All hope flung
overboard!"
She put her veil aside.  She looked into his eyes, and said,
"T'o die!"
" To die. All along of the women, my mother and the
rest: they did something: about his bandages that finished
every thing: he would have got better but for them.  I am
sure they should be arrested, cribbed, tried, and brought in fbr
-Botanly Bay, at the very least."
The questioner, perhaps, did not hear this judgment: she
stood motionless. In two minutes, without another word, she
moved forward: no good-night, no further inquiry. This was
ntot amusing, nor what Martin had calculated on: he expect.
ed something dramatic and demonstrative: it was hardly
worth while to frighten the girl, if she would not entertain
him ia return.  lie called,
" Miss Helstone!"
She did not hear or turn.  He hastened after and overtook
her.
" Come. Are you uneasy about what I said?"
" You know nothing about death, Martin: you are too
young for me to talk to concerning such a thing."
"Did you believe me?  It's all flummery! lMIoore eat,
like three men: they are always makinl-g sago or tapioca, or
something good for him: I never go into the kitchen but there
is a sauce-pan on the fire cooking him some dainty.  I think
I will play the old soldier, and be fed on the fat of the land
like him."
"Martin! Martin!" here her voice trembled, and she
stopped.
"It is exceedingly wrong of you, Martin: you have almosi
killed me."




504                   SHIRLEY.
Again she stopped: she leaned against a tree, trembling
shuddering, and as pale as death.
Martin contemplated her with inexpressible curiosity.  In
one sense it was, as he would have expressed it, "nuts" to
him to see this: it told him so much, and he was beginning
to have a great relish for discovering secrets; in another sense,
it reminded him of what he had once felt when he had heard
a blackbird lamenting for her nestlings, which Matthew had
crushed with a stone, and that was not a pleasant feeling
Unable to find any thing very appropriate to say, in order to
comfort her, he began to cast about in his mind what he could
do: he smiled: the lad's smile gave wondrous transparency
to his physiognomy.
"Eureka!" he cried.  "I'll set all straight by-and-by.
You are better now, Miss Caroline: walk forward," he urged.
Not reflecting that it would be more difficult for Miss Helstone than for himself to climb a wall or penetrate a hedge,
he piloted her by a short cut which led to no gate. The consequence was he had to help her over some formidable obstacles, and, while he railed at her for helplessness, he perfectly
liked to feel himself of use.
" Martin, before we separate, assure me seriously and on
your word of honor, that Mr. Moore is better."
" How very much you think of that Moore!"
"No-but —many of his friends may ask me, and I wish
to be able to give an authentic answer."
"You may tell them he is well enough', only idle: you
may tell them that he takes mutton-chops for dinner, and the
best of arrow-root for supper.  I intercepted a basin myself
one night on its way up stairs, and ate half of it."
"And who waits on him, Martin?  Who nurses him?"
" Nurses him?-the great baby! W Thy, a woman as round
and big as our largest water-butt-a rough, hard-favored old
girl. I make no doubt she leads him a rich life: nobody else
is let near him: he is chiefly in the dark. It is my belief she
knocks him about terribly in that chamber. I listen at the
wall sometimes when I am in bed, and I think I hear her
thumping him. You should see her fist: she could hold half
a. dozen hands like yours in her one palm. After all, notwithstanding the cLops and jellies he gets, I would not be in
his shoes. In fact, it is my private opinion that she eats most




TIHE SCHOOL-BOY  AND WOOD-NYAlMPH.  505
of what goes up on the tray to Mr. Moore. I wish she may
not be starving him."
Profound silence and meditation on Caroline's part. and
a sly watchfulness on Martin's.
"You never see him, I suppose, Martin?"
" I?  No: I don't care to see him, for my own part."
Silence again.
"Did not you come to our house once with Mrs. Pryor,
about five weeks since, to ask after him?" again inquired
Martin.
" Yes."
" I dare say you wished to be shown up stairs."
"We did wish it: we entreated it; but your mother de.
elined. "
"Ay! she declined: I heard it all: she treated you as it
is her pleasure to treat visitors now and then: she behaved
to you rudely and harshly."
"She was not kind; for you know, Martin, we are relations, and it is natural we should take an interest in Mr.
Moore. But here we must part: we are at your father's
gate."
" Very well-what of that? I shall walk home with you."
T' hey will miss you, and wonder where you are."
" Let them... I can take care of myself I suppose."
Martin knew that he had already incurred the penalty of
a lecture, and dry bread for his tea. No matter, the evening
had furnished him with an adventure: it was better than muffins and toast.
He walked home with Caroline.  On the way he promised
to see Mr. Moore, in spite of the dragon who guarded his
chamber, and appointed an hour on the next day when Caroline was to come to Briarmains Wood and get tidings of him:
he would meet her at a certain tree.  The scheme led to noth
ing: still he liked it.
Having reached home, the dry bread and the lecture were
duly administered to him, and he was dismissed to bed at an
early hour. He accepted his punishment with Ihe toughest
stoicism.
lEre ascending to his chamber he paid a secret visit to the
dining-room, a still, cold, stately apartment, seldom used; for
the fanmily customarily dined in the back parlor.  lie stoo(l




:506                 SHIRLEY.
before the mantle-piece, and lifted his candle to two pictures
hung above-female heads: one, a type of serene beauty —
happy and innocent; the other, more lovely-but forlorn and
desperate.
" She looked like that," he said, gazing on the latter sketch,
"when she sobbed, turned white, and leaned against the tree."
"I suppose," he pursued, when he Twas in his room, and
seated on the edge of his pallet-bed-" I suppose she is, what
they call.' in love;' yes, in love with that long thing in the
next chamber.  Whisht! is that Horsfall clattering him? I
wonder he does not yell out. It really sounds as if she had
fallen on him tooth and nail; but I suppose she is making the
bed. I saw ler at it once-she hit into the mattresses as if
she was boxing.  It is queer, Zillah (they call her Zillah)Zillah Horsfall is a woman, and Caroline Helstone is a woman: they are two individuals of the same species-not much
alike though.  Is she a pretty girl, that Caroline?  I suspect
she is-very nice to look at-something so clear in her faceso soft in her eyes. I approve of her looking at me; it does
me good.  She has long eyelashes: their shadow seems to
rest where she gazes, and to instill peace and thought.  If
she behaves well, and continues to suit me, as she has suited
me to-day, I may do her a good turn.  I rather relish the no.
tion of circumventing my mother and that ogress, old Horsfall.  Not that I like humoring Moore; but whatever I do
I'll be paid for, and in coin of my own choosing: I know what
reward I will claim-one displeasing to Moore, and agreeabit
to myself."
lie turned into bed.
CH-APTER  XXXIII.
MARTIN S TACTICS,
iT was necessary to the arrangement of lMartin's plan, that
hL3 should stay at home that day.  Accordingly, he found no
5,ppetite obr breakfast; and, just about school-time, took a se



'MARTIN'S TACTICS.                   507
vere pain about his heart, which rendered it advisable that,
instead of setting out to the gralnmar-school wi:h Malk, li_,
should succeed to his father's arm-chair by the fire-side, and
also to his morning paper. This point being satisfactorily settled, and Mark being gone to Mr. Sumner's class, and Mat.
thew and Mr. Yorke withdrawn to the counting-house, three
other exploits, nay, four, remained to be achieved.
The first of these was to realize the breakfast he had not
yet tasted, and with which his appetite of fifteen could ill af:
ford to dispense; the second, third, fourth, to get his mother,
Miss Moore, and Mrs. Horsfall successively out of the way before four o'clock that afternoon.
The first was, for the present, the most pressing, since the
work befbre him demanded an amount of energy which the
present empty condition of his youthful stomach did not seem
likely to supply.
Martin knew the way to the larder; and knowing this way.
he took it.  The servants were in the kitchen, breakfasting
solemnly with closed doors; his mother and Miss Moore were
airing themselves on the lawn, and discussing the closed doors
aforesaid: lMartin, safe in the larder, made fastidious selection fiom its stores.  His breakfast had been delayed- he -was
determined it should be recherche: it appeared to him that a
variety on his usual somewhat insipid fare of bread and milk
was both desirable and advisable: the savory and the salutary he thought might be combined.  There was store of rosy.pples laid in straw upon a shelf; he picked out three. There
was pastry upon a dish; he selected an apricot-puff and a damson tart. On the plain household bread his eye did not dwell:
but lne surveyed with favor some currant tea-cakes, and condescended to make choice of one.  Thanks to his clasp-knife,
he was able to appropriate a wing of fowl and a slice of ham;
a cantlet of cold custard pudding he thought would harmonize
with these articles; and having made this final addition to
his booty, he at length sallied forth into the hall.
He was already half wiy across-three steps more would
hlave anchored him in the harbor of the back parlor-when
the front door opened, and there stood Matthew.  Better far
had it been the Old GTentleman, in full equipage of horns,
hoofs, and tail.
Matthew, skeptic and scoffer. had already fafled to subserib 
Y*




508                   S I-IIRLE Y.
a pronmpt belief in that pain about the heart: he had mutter
ed some words, among which the phrase "sllhamming Abra,
ham" had been very distinctly audible; and the succession to
the arm-chair and newspaper had appeared to affect him with
mental spasms: the spectacle now before him, the apples, the
tarts, the tea-cake, the fowl, ham, and pudding, oflfred evidence but too well calculated to inflate his opinion of his own
sagacity.
Martin paused "interdit" one minute, one instant; the
next he knew his ground, and pronounced all well.  With
the true perspicacity " des ames elites," he at once saw how
this-at first sight untoward event-might be turned to excellent account: he saw how it might be so handled as to secure the accomplishment of his second task, viz., the disposal
of his mother.  He knew that a collision between him and
Matthew always suggested to Mrs. Yorke the propriety of a
fit of hysterics; he further knew that, on the principle of calm
succeedintg to storm, after a morning of hysterics, liis mother
was sure to indulge in an afternoon of bed. This would accommodate him perfectly.
The collision duly took place in the hall.  A dry laugh, an
insulting sneer, a contemptuous taunt, met by a nonchalant
but most cutting reply, were the signals.  They rushed at it
Martin, who usuallymade little noise on these occasions, made
a great deal now.  In flew the servants, Mrs. Yorke, Miss
Moore: no female hand could separate them: Mr. Yorke
was summoned.
" Sonls," said he, " ane of you must leave my roof if this occurs again: I will have no Cain and Abel strife here."
Martin now allowed himself to be taken off: he had been
hurt; he was the youngest and slightest; he was quite cool,
in no passion: he even smiled, content that the most difficult
part of the labor he had set himself was over.
Once he seemed to flag in the course of the morning.
"It is not worth while to bother myself for that Caroline,"
he remarked.  But, a quarter of an hour afterward, he was
again in the dining-room, looking at the head with disheveled
tresses and eyes turbid with despair.
"Yes," he said, "I made her sob, shudder, almost faint:
I'll see her smile before I've d neo with her: besides, T >-arat
o outwit all these womenites."




MARTIN'S TACTICS.                  509
Directly after dinner, Mrs. Yorke fulfilled her son's calcula,
tion by withdrawing to her chamber.  Now for Hortense.
That lady was just corrmfortably settled to stocking-mend.
ing in the back parlor, when Martin-laying down a book
which, stretched on the sofa (he was still indisposed, accord
ing to his own account), he had been perutsing in all the voluptuous ease of a yet callow pashaw-lazily introduced some
discourse about Sarah, the maid at the Hollow. In the course
of much verbal meandering, he insinuated information that
this damsel was said to have three suitors, Frederic Murga
troyd, Jeremiah Pighills, and John-of-Mally's-of-Hannah's-ol
T)eb's; and that Miss Mann had affirmed she knew for a fact,
that now the girl was left in sole charge of the cottage, shu
often had her swains to meals, and entertained them with the
best the house afibrded.
It needed no more. Hortense could not have lived another
hour without betaking herself to the scene of these nefarious
transactions, and inspecting the state of matters in person.
Mrs. HIorsefall remained.
Martin, master of the field now, extracted from his mother's
work-basket a bunch of keys; with these he opened the side.
board cupboard, produced thence a black bottle and a small
glass, placed them on the table, nimbly mounted the stairs,
made fbr Mr. Moore's door, tapped, the nurse opened.
"' If you please, ma'am, you are invited to step into the
back parlor, and take some refreshment: you will not be disturbed: the family are out."
He watched her down; he watched her in; himself shut
the door: he knew she was safe.
The hard work was done; now for the pleasure.  He
snatched his cap, and away for the wood.
It was yet but half past three; it had been a fine morning,
but the sky looked dark now: it was beginning to snow; the
wind blew cold: the wood looked dismal; the old tree grim.
Yet Martin approved the shadow on his path: he found a
charm in the spectral aspect of the doddered oak.
He had to wait: to and fro he walked, while the flakes fell
faster; and the wind, which at first had but moaned, pitifully howled.
"She is long in coming," he muttered, as he glanced along
the narrow track.  "I wonder," he subjoined, " what I wislt




51080 SH IRLE Y.
to see her so much for?  She is not coming for mne  But 1
have power over her, and I want her to conte that I may use
that power."
lIe continued his walk.
"Now," he resumed, when a further period had elapsed,
"if she fails to come, I shall hate and scorn her."
It struck four: he heard the church-clock far away. A step
so quick, so light, that, but for the rustling of leaves, it would
scarcely have sounded on the wood-walk, checked his impatience. The wind blew fiercely now, and the thickened white
storm waxed bewildering; but on she came, and not dismayed
" Well, Martin," she said eagerly, " how is he?"
" It is queer how she thinks of' him," reflected Martin:
" the blinding snow and bitter cold are nothing to her, I believe: yet she is but a' chitty-faced' creature, as my mother
would say. I could find in my heart to wish I had a cloak
to wrap her in."
Thus meditating to himself, he neglected to answer Miss
Helstone.;' You have seen him?"
" No."
"Oh! you promised you would."
" I mean to do better by you than that. Didn't I say, I.ion't care to see him?"
" But now it will be so long before I get to know any thing
(certain about him, and I am sick of waiting.  Martin, do see
him, aind give him Caroline Helstone's regards, and say she
wished to know how he was, and if a ay thing could be done
for his comfort."
"I won't."
" You are changed: you were so friendly last night."
S" Come: we must not stand in this wood; it is too cold.'
" But, before I go, promise me to come again to-morrow
with news."
"No such thing; I am much too delicate to make and
keep such appointments in the winter season: if you knew
what a pain I had in my chest this morning. and how I went
without breakfast, and was knocked down besides, you'd feel
the impropriety of bringing me here in the snow   Come, 1
say."     -
" Are, you really delicate, Martin?"




MA KRTIN'S TACTICS.                  511
b' Don't I look so?"' "You have rosy cheeks."
" That's hectic.  Will you come-or you won't?"
"Where?"
"V'th me. I was a fool not to bring a cloak: I would
have made you cozy."
"You are goingf home: my nearest road lies in the opposite direction."
"Put your arm through mine.  I'll take care of you."
"But, the wall-the hedge-it is such hard work climb.
ing, and you are too slender and young to help me without
hurting yourself."
"You shall go through the gate."
" But-"
" But!-but! Will you trust me or not?"
She looked into his face.
" I think I will.  Any thing rather than return as anxious
as I came."
"I can't answer for that. This, however, I promise you;:e ruled by me, and you shall see Moore yourself."
"See him myself?"
"Yourself."
"But, dear Martin, does he-l know?"
"Ah! I'm dear now.  No: he doesn't know."
"And your mother and the others,"
"All is right."
Caroline fell into a long silent fit of musing, but still she
walked on with her guide: they came in sight of Briarmains
"HI'ave you made up your mind?" he asked.
She was silent.
" Decide.  Wte are just ot the spot.  I won't see hirn
that I tell you —except to announce your arrival."
" Martin, you are a strange boy, and this is a strange step;
but all I feel is and has been, for a long time, strange.  I
will see him."
" Having said that, you will neither hesitate nor retract?"
" Here we are, then.  Do not be afraid of passing the parfor window: no one will see you.  My father and Matthew
are at the mill; Mark is at school; the servants are in the
back ki*rhen; Miss Moore is at the cottage; my mother iu




512                   SHIRLEY.
her bed; and Mrs. Horsfall in Paradise.  Observe —I need
not ring: I open the door; the hall is empty; the stair-case
quiet; so is the gallery: the whole house and all its inhabitants are under a spell, which I will not break till you are
gone."
"Martin, I trust you."
"You never said a better word. Let me take your shawl:
I will shake off the snow and dry it for you. You are cold
and wet: never mind; there is a fire up stairs. Are you
ready?"
" Yes."
"Follow me."
He left his shoes on the mat, mounted the stair unshod;
Caroline stole after, with noiseless step: there was a gallery,
and there was a passage; at the end of that passage Martin
paused before a door and tapped: he had to tap twice —
thrice: a voice, known to one listener, at last said,
" Come in."
The boy entered briskly.
" Mr. Moore, a lady called to inquire after you: none of'
the women were about: it is washing-day, and the maids are
over the crown of the head in soap-suds in the back kitchen;
so I asked her to step up."' Up here, sir?"
" Up here, sir; but if you object, she shall go down again."
" Is this a place, or am I a person to bring a lady to, you
absurd lad?"
"No: so I'll take her off."
"Martin, you will stay here.  WTho is she?"
" Your grandmother from that chateau on the Sel 3ldt lIAEss
Moore talks about."
" Martin," said the softest whisper at the door, " don't be
foolish."
"Is she there?" inquired Moore, hastily. He had caught
an imperfect sound.
" She is there, fit to faint: she is standing on the mat,
shocked at your want of filial affection."
"; Martin, you are an evil cross between an imp and a page.
What is she like?"
"More like me than you; for she is young and beautiful 
"You are to show her forwar. — Do vou hear?"




MARTIN'S TACTICS.                   513
"Come, Miss Caroline."' Miss Caroline!" repeated Moore.
And when Miss Caroline entered, she was encountered ir
the miuddle of the chamber by a tall, thin, wasted figure, who
took both her hands.
"I give you a quarter of an hour," said Martin, as he withdrew: "no more.  Say what you have to say in that time:
till it is past, I will wait in the gallery: nothing shall approach: I'll see you safe away. Should you persist in staying longer, I leave you to your fate."
He shut the door. In the gallery he was as elate as a
king: he had never been engaged in an adventure he liked so
well; for no adventure had ever invested him with so much
importance, or inspired him with so much interest.
" You are come at last," said the meager man, gazing on
his visitress with hollow eyes.
" Did you expect me before."
" For a month-near two months, we have been very
near; and I have been in sad pain, and danger, and misery,
C,ary."
" I could not come."
" Couldn't you I  But the Rectory and Briarmains are
very near: not two miles apart."
There was pain —there was pleasure in the girl's face as
she listened to these implied reproaches: it was sweet-it was
bitter to defend herself.
"When I say I could not come, I mean I could not see
you; ior I came with mamma the very day we heard what
had happened.  Mr. MacTurk then told us it was impossible
to admit any stranger."
"But afterward-every fine afternoon these many week
past I have waited and listened. Something here, Cary" (lay
ing his hand on his breast), "told me it was impossible bu'
that you should think of me. Not that I merit thought; but
we are old acquaintance: we are cousins."
"I came again, Robert: mamma and I came again."
" Did you I Come, that is worth hearing: since you came
again, we will sit down and talk about it."
They sat down. Caroline drew her chair up to his. The
air was now dark with snow: an Iceland blast was driving
it wildly. This pa.ir neither heard the long " wuthering"




511S H I R L E Y
rush, nor saw the white burden it drifted: each seemed con.
scious but of one thing-the presence of the other.
"So mamma and you came again?"
"And Mrs. Yorke did treat us strangely. WVe asked to see
llou.' No,' said she;'not in my house. I am at present
responsible for his life: it shall not be forfeited for half an
lour's idle gossip.' But I must not tell you all she said: it
was very disagreeable. However, we came yet again-mamma, Miss Keeldar, and I. This time we thought we should
conquer, as we were three against one, and Shirley was on
our side. But Mrs. Yorke opened such a battery."
Moore smiled.  " What did she say?"
" Things that astonished us.  Shirley laughed at last; I
cried; mamma was seriously annoyed: we were all three
driven from the field. Since that time I have only walked
once a day past the house, just for the satisfaction of looking
up at your window, which I could distinguish by the drawn
curtains. I really dared not come in."
" I have wished for you, Caroline."
" I did not know that.  I never dreamed one instant that
you thought of me. If I had but most distantly imagined
such a possibility —"
" Mrs. Yorke would still have beaten you."
"She would not.  Stratagem should have been tried, if
persuasion failed.  I would have come to the kitchen door;
the servant should have let me in; and I would have walked
straight up stairs. In fact, it was far more the fear of intrusion-the fear of yourself, that baffled me, than the fear of
Mrs. Yorke."
"Only last night, I despaired of ever seeing you again.
Weakness has wrought terrible depression in me-terrible depression."
" And you sit alone?"
" Worse than alone."
" But you must be getting better, since you can leave youx
bed?"
"I doubt whether I shall live: I see nothing for it, after
such exhaustion, but decline."
"You-you shall go home to the Hollow."
"Dreariness would accompany — nothing cheerfull come
Cear' mc "




MARTIN'S TACTICS.                   515
"I  vill alter this: this shall be altered, were there tenr
Mrs. Yorkes to do battle with."
" Cary, you make me smile."
" Do smile: smile again.  Shall I tell you what I s3hould
like?"
"Tell me any thing —on.y keep talking. I am Saul: but
for music I should perish."
" I should like you to be brought to the Rectory, and given
to me and mamma."
"A precious gift! I have not laughed since they shot me
till now."
" Do you suffer pain, Robert?"
" Not so much pain now; but I am hopelessly weak, and
the state of my mind is inexpressible -dark, barren, impotent.
Do you not read it all in my face?  I look a mere ghost?"
"Altered, yet I should have known you any where: but I
understand your feelings: I experienced something like it.
Since we met, I too have been very ill."
" Very ill?"
" I thought I should die. The tale of my life seemed told
Every night just at midnight I used to wake from  awft'
dreams-and the book lay open befbre me, at the last pangs
where was written'Finis.' I had strange feelings."
" You speak my experience."
"'  believed I should never see you again; and I grew so
thin-as thin as you are now: I could do nothing fbr myself
-neither rise nor lie down; and I could not eat-yet, you
see I am better."
" Comforter! sad as sweet: I am too feeble to say what I
feel; but, while you speak, I do feel."
" HIere I am at your side, where I thought never more to
be: here I speak to you-I see you listen to me willingly —
look at me kindly.  Did I count on that?  I despaired."
Moore sighed-a sigh so deep, it was nearly a groan: he
ev,vered his eyes with his hand.
" May I be spared to make some atonement!"
Such was his player.
"And for what?"
" WVe will not touch on it now, Cary: unmanned as I am,
1 have not the power to cope with such a topic.  Was Mrs
Pryor witl you during your illness?"




51C                    SHIRLEY
"Yes" (Caroline smiled brightly), "you know shlt is mainm
ma?"
"I have heard: Hortense told me; but that tale too I wiL
receive from yourself. Does she add to your happiness?"
" What! mamma. She is dear to me; hozw dear I can
not say.  I was altogether weary, and she held me up."
"I deserve to hear that in a moment when I cart scarce
ift my hand to my head. I deserve it."
" It is no reproach against you."
" It is a coal of fire heaped on my head; and so is every
word you address to me, and every look that lights your sweet
face.  Come still nearer, Lina, and give me your hand-if
my thin fingers do not scare you."
She took those thin fingers between her two little handsshe bent her head " et les effleui L de ses levres" (I put that
in French because the word " effleurer" is an exquisite word).
Moore was much moved: a large tear or two coursed down
his hollow cheek.
" I'll keep these things in my heart, Cary: that kiss I will
put by, and you shall hear of it again one day.":' Come out!" cried Martin, opening the door.  "Come
away-you have had twenty minutes instead of a quarter of
an hour."
" She will not stir yet, you hempseed!"
"I dare not stay longer, Robert."
" Canr you promise to return M"
"No, she can't," responded Martin.  "The thing Inllstn't
become customary: I can't be troubled. It's very well for
once: I'll not have it repeated."
"You'll not have it repeated!"
" Hush! don't vex him —we could not have met to-day but
for him: but I will come again, if it is your wish that I should
corm.e."
"It ts my wish-my one wish-almost the only wish I can
feel."
"Come this minute: my mother has coughed, got up, set
her feet on the floor. Let her only catch you on the stairs,
Miss Caroline: you're not to bid him good-by" (stepping be.
tween her and Moore)-" you are to march."
"My shawl, Martin."
"I have it.  I'll put it on for you when you are in the
hall "




CASE OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION                517
He made them  part: he would suffer no farewell but
what could be expressed in looks: he half carried Caroline
down the stairs. In the hall he wrapped her shawl round
her, and-but that his mother's tread then creaked in the
gallery, and but that a sentiment of diffidence-the proper,
natural, therefore the noble impulse of his boy's heart, held
him back, he would have claimed his reward-he would have
said, "Now, Miiss Caroline, for all this give me one kiss.'
But ere the words had passed his lips, she was across the
snowy road, rather skimming than wading the drifts.
" She is my debtor, and I will be paid."
He flattered himself that it was opportunity, not audacity,
which had failed him: he misjudged the quality of his own
nature, and held it for something lower than it was.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CASE OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION.-REMARKABLE INSTANCE OF
PIOUS PERSEVEREANCE IN THE DISCHARGE OF RELIGIOUS DUTIES.
MARTIN, having known the taste of excitement, wanted a
second draught; having felt the dignity of power, he loathed
to relinquish it. Miss Helstone-that girl he had always
called ugly, and whose face was now perpetually before his
eyes, by day and by night, in dark and in sunshine —had once
come within his sphere: it fretted him to think the visit
might never be repeated.
Though a school-boy, he was no ordinary school-boy: he
was destined to grow up an original. At a few years later
date, he took great pains to pare and polish himself down to
the pattern of the rest of the world, but he never succeeded:
a unique stamp marked him always. He now sat idle at his
desk in the grammar-school, casting about in his mind for the
means of addinf another chapter to his commenced romance:
ne did not yet know how many commenced life-romances are
doomed never to get beyond the first-or, at most, the second
chapter.  His Saturday halfholiday he spent in the wood




MSlS                   S iSIR LEY
witih his book of fairy legends, and that other unwritten boct
of his imagination.
Martin harboredl an irreligious reluctance tp see the ap.
Iproach of Sunday.  Htis father and mother —while disclaiming community with the Establishment — failed not duly,
once on the sacred day, to fill their large pew ill Briarfield
church with the whole of their blooming family.  Theoretically, Mr. Yorke placed all sects and churches on a level;
Mrs. Yorke awarded the palm to Moravians and Quakers, on
account of that crown of humility by these worthies worn:
neither of them were ever known, however, to set foot in a
conventicle.
Martin, I say, disliked Sunday, because the morning service
was longl, and the sermon usually little to his taste: this Saturday afternoon, however, his woodland musings disclosed to
him a new-found charm ill the coming day.
It proved a day of deep snow:- so deep, that Mrs. Yorke,
during breakfast, announced her conviction that the children,
both boys and girls, would be better at home; arid her decision that, instead of going to church, they should sit silent
fobr two hours in the back parlor, while Rose and Martin al
ternately read a succession of sermons: John WVesley's'Sermons: John Wesley, being a Reformer and an Agitator, had
a place both in her own and her husband's favor.
"Rose will do as she pleases," said Martin, not looking up
from the book which, according to his custom then and in
after-life, he was studying over his bread and milk.
" Rose will do as she is told, and Martin too," observed
the mother.
"I am going to church."
So her son replied, with the ineffable quietude of a true
Yorke, who knows his will and means to have it, and who.
if pushed to the wall, will let himself be crushed to death,
provided no way of escape can be found-but will never ca.
pitulate.
" It is not fit weather," said the father.
No answer: the youth read studiously; he slowly broke
his bread and sipped his milk.
4 "Martin hates to go to church, but he hates still more ta
obey," said Mrs. Yorke.
"1I suppose I am influenced by pure perverseness?"




CASE OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION.    519
" Yes, you are."
" M/other, I anz )lot.9
" lly what, then, are you influenced?"
" By a complication of motives; the intricacies of which I
tlould as soon think of explaining to you, as I should of turning myself inside out to exhibit the internal machinery of my
frame. "
"Hear Martin! tHear him!" cried Mr. Yorke.  "I must
see and have this lad of mine brought up to the Bar: Nature
meant him  to live by his tongue.  Hesther, your third son
must certainly be a lawyer: he has the stock in, trade-brass,
self-conceit, and words-words -words."
" Some bread, Rlose, if you please," requested Martin, with
intense gravity, serenity, phlegm: the boy had naturally a
low, plaintive voice, which, in his "dour" moods, rose scarce,
ly above a lady's whisper: the more inflexibly stubborn the
humor, the softer, the sadder the tone.  lHe rang the bell,
and geatly asked for his walking shoes.
" But, Martin," urged his sire, "there is drift all the way
-a man could hardly wade through it.  However, lad," he
continued, seeing that the boy rose as the church-bell began
to toll, " this is a case wherein I wvsNould by no means balk the
obdurate chap of his will.  Go to church by all means.
There is a pitiless wind, and a sharp, frozen sleet, besides the
depth under foot.  Go out into it, sinice thou preferrest it to
a warm fireside."
Martin quietly assumed his cloak, comforter, and cap, and
deliberately went out.
" My father has more sense than my mother," he pro.
nounced.  " -ow  women miss it!  They drive the nail into
the flesh, thinking they are hammering away at insensate
stone."
lIe reached church early.
"Now, if the weather fiightens her (and it is a real De
cemnber tempest), or if that IMrs. Pryor objects to her going
out, and I should miss her after all, it will vex me: but, teni
pest or tornado, hail or ice, she ought to come; and, if she
has a mind worthy of her eyes and features, she will come:
hle will be here for the chance of seeing me, as I am here fbi
the chance of seeing her: she will want to get a word roe
spectCmg her] confounded sweet-heart, as T want to get anothre




520                   SH IRL EY.
flavor of what I think the essence of life: a tase of existence
with the spirit preserved in it, and not evaporated.  Adven
ture is to stagnation what Champagne is to flat porter."
He looked round. The church was cold, silent, empty, but
for one old woman. As the chimes subsided, and the singlE
bell tolled slowly, another and another elderly parishionei
cfame dropping in, and took his humble station in the free sit.
tings. It is always the frailest, the oldest, and the poorest
that brave the worst weather, to prove and maintain their
constancy to dear old mother Church: this wild morning, not
3ne affluent family attended, not one carriage party appeared
— all the lined and cushioned pews were empty; only on the
bare oaken seats sat ranged the gray-haired elders and feeble
paupers.
"I'll scorn her, if she doesn't come," muttered MIlartin
hortly and savagely to himself.  The rector's shovel-hat
had passed the porch: Mr. Helstone and his clerk were in
the vestry.
The bells ceased-the reading-desk was filled-the doorn
were closed-the service commenced: void stood the rectory.
pew-she was not there: Martin scorned her.
"Worthless thing! Vapid thing!  Commonplace hum
bug! Like all other girls-weakly, selfish, shallow!"
Such was Martin's liturgy.
"She is not like our picture: her eyes are not large and
expressive: her nose is not straight, delicate, Hellenic: hei
mouth has not that charm I thought it had-which, I irn
agined, could beguile me of sullenness in my worst moods.
What is she?  A thread-paper, a doll, a toy —a girl, in short.'
So absorbed was the young cynic, he forgot to rise frolm
his knees at the proper place, and was still in an exemplary
attitude of devotion when-the litany over-the first hymn,
was given out. To be so caught did not contribute to soothe
him: he started up red (for he was as sensitive to ridicule as
any girl). To make the matter worse, the church door had
reopened, and the aisles were filling: patter, patter, patter
a hundred little feet trotted in. It was the Sunday-scholars.
According to Briarfield winter custom, these children had till
now been kept where there was a warm stove, and only led
anto church just before the Communion and Sermon.
The little ones were settled first, and at last, when the








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C LSEI] OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION.   521
boys and the younger girls were all arranged-when the organ
was swelling high, and the choir and congregation were rising
to uplift a spiritual song-a tall class of young women came
quietly in, closing the procession.  Their teachers, having
seen them seated, passed into the rectory-pew.  The French.
gray cloak and small beaver bonnet were known to Martin
it was the very costume his eyes had ached to catch.  Mis,
Helstone had not suffered the storm to prove an impediment:
after all, she was come to church.  Martin probably whispered his satisfaction to his hymn-book; at any rate, he therewith hid his face two minutes.
Satisfied or not, he had time to get very angry with her
again beibre the sermon was over; she had never once looked
his way: at least, he had not been so lucky as to encounter
a, glance.
I" f;" he said-" if she takes no notice of' me; if' she shows
I am not in her thoughts, I shall have a worse, a meaner
opinion of her than ever. tMost despicable would it be to
come for the sake of those sheep-faced Sunday-scholars, and
niot for my sake, or that longy skeleton Moore's."
The sermon found an end; the benediction was pronounced;
the congregation dispersed: she had not been near him.
Now, indeed, as Martin set his face homeward, he felt that
the sleet was sharp, and the east wind cold.
H-Iis nearest way lay through some fields: it was a danger
ous, because an untrodden way: he did not care; he would
take it. Near the second stile rose a clump of trees: was
that an umbrella waiting there?  Yes: an umbrella held
with evident difficulty against the blast: behind it fluttered
a French gray cloak. Martin grinned as he toiled up the
steep, encumbered field, difficult to the foot as a slope in the
upper realms of Etna.  There was an inimitable look in his
face when, having gained the stile, he seated himself coolly
thereupon, and thus opened a conference which, for his own
part, he was willing to prolong indefinitely.
"I think you had better strike a bargain: exchange mI
for Mrs. Pryor."
"I'  was not sure whether you would come this way, Martin; but I thought I would run the chance: there is no such
thing as getting a quiet word spoken in the church or churchWard."




522                   SH IRLEY.
" Will you agree? IMake over Mrs. Pryor to my mnothel
and put me in her skirts?"' As if I could understand you! What puts Mrs. Pryox
into your head?"
"You call her' mamma' don't vou?'
"She is my mamma."
"Not possible-or so inefficient, so careless a mamma —.
should make a five times better one. You mzay laugh: I
have no objection to see you laugh: your teeth-I hate ugly
teeth; but yours are as pretty as a pearl necklace, and a
necklace of which the pearls are very fair, even, and well
matched, too."
" Martin, what now?  I thought the Yorkes never paid
compliments?"
" They have not done till this generation; but I feel as if
it were my vocation to turn out a new variety of the Yorke
species.  I am  rather tired of my own ancestors: we have
traditions going back for four ages-tales of Hiram, which
was the son of Hiram, which was the son of Samuel, which
was the son of John, which was the son of Zerubbabel Yorke.
All, from Zerubbabel down to the last Hiram, were such as
you see my father. Befobre that, there was a Godfrey: we
have his picture; it hangs in Moore's bed-room: it is like me.
Of his character we know nothing; but I ami sure it was
different to his descendants: he has long, curling, dark hair;
he is carefully and cavalierly dressed.  Having said that he
s like me, I need not add that he is handsome."
" You are not handsome, Martin."
"No; but wait a while: just let me take my time: I
mean to begin from this day to cultivate, to polish —and we
shall see."
"You are a very strange -a very unaccountable boy,
Martin; but don't imagine you ever will be handsome: you
can not."
"I mean to try.  But we were talking. about Mrs. Pryor:
she must be the most unnatural mamma in existences, oolly
to let her daughter come out in this weather. Mine was in
such a rage, because I would go to church: she was fit to
fling the kitchen-brush after me."
"M(i amma was very much concerned about me; but I ar
afraid I was obstinate: I' wozdd gDo."




CASE OF DOMES 1  1' JI'RSECUTrON.   523
"c To see me 1"
"Exactly: I thought of nothing else. I greatly feared the
sniow would hinder you from coming: you don't know how
pleased I was to see you all by yourself in the pew,"
" I came to fulfill my duty, and set the parish a good example. And so you were obstinate, were you? I should
like to see you obstinate, I should. Wouldn't I have you
in good discipline if I owned you?  Let me take the umbrella."
"I can't stay two minutes: our dinner will be ready."
" And so will ours; and we have always a hot dinner on
Sundays. Roast goose to-day, with apple pie and rice pudding. I always contrive to know the bill of fare: well, I like
these things uncommonly; but I'll make the sacrifice, if you
will."
" We have a cold dinner: my uncle will allow no unnecessary cooking on the Sabbath.  But I must return: the house
would be in commotion, if I failed to appear."
" So will Briarmains, bless you! I think I hear my father
sending out the overlooker and five of the dyers, to look in six
directions for the body of his prodigal son in the snow; and
my mother repenting her of her many misdeeds toward me,
now I am gone."
"' Martin, how is Mr. Moore."
9' Tzhat is what you came for-just to say that word."
" Come, tell me quickly."
" Hang him! lie is no worse; but as ill-used as evermewed up, kept in solitary confinement. They mean to
make either an idiot or a maniac of him, and take out a commission of lunacy.  Horsfall starves him: you saw how thin
he was."
"You were very good the other day, Martin."
"What day?  I am always good-a model."
"When will you be so good again?"
"I see what you are after; but you'll not wheedle me: I
am no cat's paw."
"But it must be done: it is quite a right thing and a nec.
essary thing."
" How you encroach! Remember, I maaraged tnre matte]
of my own free-will before."
" And you will again."




524                   SHIRLEY.
"I won't: the business gave me far too much trouble: I
like my ease."
" Mr. Moore wishes to see me, Martin; and I wish to see
him,"
" I dare say" (coolly).
" It is too bad of your mother to exclude his friends."
"Tell her so."
"His own relations."' Come and blow her up."
"You know that would advance nothing. Wrell, I shall
stick to my point. See him I will. If you won't help me,
['11 manage without help."
"Do: there is nothing like self-reliaince-selikdependence."
" I have no time to reason with you now; but I consider
you provoking.  Good morning."
Away she went-the umbrella shut; foi she could not
carry it against the wind.
"She is not vapid; she is not shallow," sa\w Martin.  " I
shall like6 to watch, and mark how she will work her way
without help. If the storm were not of snow, but of firesuch as came refreshingly down on the cities of the plain-she
would go through it, to procure five minutes' speech of that
Moore.  Now, I consider I have had a pleasant morning:
the disappointments got time on: the fears and fits, of' anger
only made that short discourse pleasanter, when it came at
last.  She expected to coax me at once: she'll not manage
that in one effort: she shall come again, again, and yet again.
It would please me to put her in a passion-to make her cry:
I want to discover how far she will go-what she will do and
dare-to get her will.  It seems strange and new to find one
human being thinking so much about another as she thinks
about Moore. But it is time to go home: my appetite tells
me the hour: won't I walk into that goose?-and we'll try
whether Matthew or I shall get the largest cut of the apple.
pie to-day'




MATTERS MAKE SLOW  PROGRESS.               523
CHAPTER XXXV.
WILERLEIN MATTERS MAKISE SOME PROGRESS, BUT Nor  MUCH.
MARTIN had planned well: he had laid out a dextrously.
concerted scheme for his private amusement; but older and
wiser schemers than he are often doomed to see their finestspun projects swept to annihilation by the sudden broom of
Fate-that fell housewife, whose red arm none can control.
In the present instance, this broom was manufactured out of
the tough fibers of Moore's own stubborn purpose, bound tight
with his will. He was now resuming his strength, and making strange head against Mrs. Horsfall. Each morning he
amazed that matron with a fresh astonishment. First, he
discharged her from her valet duties: he would dress himself.
Then he refused the coffee she brought him: he would break
fast with the family. Lastly, he forbade her his chamber.
On the same day, amid the outcries of all the women in the
place, he put his head out of doors. The morning after, he
followed lMAr. Yorke to his counting-house, and requested an
envoy to fetch a chaise from the Red-House Inn. He was
resolved, he said, to return home to the Hollow that very afternoon.  liMr. Yorke, instead of opposing, aided and abetted
him: the chaise was sent for, though Mrs. Yorke declared the
step would be his death. It came. Moore, little disposed to
speak, made his purse do duty for his tongue: he expressed his
gratitude to the servants and to Mrs. Horsfall by the chink of
his coin. The latter personage approved and understood this
language perfectly; it made amends for all previous contumacity: she and her patient parted the best friends in the
world.
The kitchen visited and soothed, Moore betook himself to
the parlor: he had Mrs. Yorke to appease; not quite so easy
a task as the pacification of her housemaids. There she sat
plunged in sullen dudgeon; the gloomiest speculations on the
depths of man's ingratitude absorbing her thoughts. He drew
uear and bent over her; she was obliged to look up, if it were




526                   SHIRLEY.
only to bid him "avaunt." There was beauty still in lhis pale
wasted fiatures; there was earnestness, and a sort cf sweet
ness-for he was smiling —in his hollow eyes.
"Good-by!" he said; and as he spoke the smile glittered
and melted. He had no iron mastery of his sensations now:
a trifling emotion made itself apparent in his present weak
state.
"And what are you going to leave us for?" she asked
" we will keep you, and do any thing in the world for you, it
you will only stay till you are stronger."
" Good-by!" he again said; and added, "you have been a
mother to me: give your willful son one embrace."
Like a foreigner, as he was, he offered her first one cheek,
then the other: she kissed him.
"I' What a trouble-what a burden I have been to you!" he
muttered.
" You are the worst trouble now, headstrong youth!" was
the answer. " I wonder who is to nurse you at Hollow's Cottage: your sister Hortense knows no more about such matters
than a child."
"Thank God! for I have had nursing enough to last me my
life."
Here the little girls came in; Jessie crying, Rose quiet, but
grave.  Moore took them out into the hall to soothe, pet, and
kiss them.  I-e knew it was not in their mother's nature to
bear to see any living thing caressed but herself: she would
have felt annoyed had he fondled a kitten in her presence.
The boys were standing about the chaise as Moore entered
it; but for them he had no farewell.  To Mr. Yorke he only
said,
"You have a good riddance of me: that was an unlucky
shot for you, Yorke; it turned Briarmains into an hospital.
Come and see me at the cottage soon."
Hle drew up the glass; the chaise rolled away. In half an
hour he alighted at his own garden wicket. Having paid the
driver and dismissed the vehicle, he leaned on that wicket anl
instant, at once to rest and to muse.
"Six months ago I passed out at this gate," said he, "a
proud, angry, disappointed man; I come back sadder and
viser: weakly enough, but not worried.  A cold, gray, yet
quiet world lies round-a world where, if I hope little, I feaL




MATTERS MAKE SLOW PROGRESS.  527
rotnhing.  All slavish terrors of embarrassment have left me;
let the worst come, I can workl, as Joe Scott does, for an honorable living: in such doom I yet see some hardship, but no
degradation.  Formerly, pecunial y ruin rwas equivalent in my
eyes to personal dishonor.  It is not so now: I know the dif
fbrence.  Ruin is an evil; but one for which I am prepared;
the day of whose coming I know, for I have calculated.  I
can yet put it off six months-not an hour longer: if things
by that time alter-which is not probable; if fetters, which
now seem indissoluble, should be loosened from our trade (of
all things the most unlikely to happen)-I might conquer in
this long struggle yet-I might-Good God! what might I
not do?  But the thoug>ht is a brief madness: let me see
things with sane eyes. Ruin will come, lay her ax to my fortune's roots, and hew them down.  I shall snatch a sapling, I
shall cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis
will go with me.  Will none but Louis go?  I can not tell
-I hbave no right to ask."
e-Ie entered the house.
It was afternoon, twilight yet out of doors: starless ant!
moonless twilight; for, though keenly freezing with a dry
black fiost, heaven wore a mask of clouds congealed and fastlocked.  The mill-dam, too, was frozen: the Hollow was very
still: in-doors it was already dark.  Sarah had lit a good fire
in the parlor; she was preparing tea in the kitchen.
" Hortense," said Moore, as his sister bustled up to help him
off with his cloak, " I am pleased to come home."
Hortense did not feel the peculiar novelty of this expression
coming from her brother, who had never before called the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits had always
heretofore seemed rather restrictive than protective: still,
whatever contributed to his happiness pleased her; and she
expressed herself to that effect.
He sat down, but soon rose again: he went to the window,
he came back to the fire.
" Iortense!"
"M iol frere?"
"6 This little parlor looks very clean and pleasant; unusually
uright, somehow."
"It is true, brother: I have had the whole house thoroughly
antd scrupiulously cleaned;.n youre absence."




528                    S HI RLEY.
" Sister, I think on this first day of my return home you.
ought to have a firiend or so to tea; if it were only to see how
fresh awnl spruce you have made the little place."; True, brothers if' it were not late, I might send for Miss
Malanl.'
"So you might; but it really is too late to disturb that
good lady; and the evening is much too cold fobr her to come
out."'How thoughtful in you, dear Gerard! We must put it
off till another day."
"I want some one to-day, dear sister: some quiet guest,
who would tire neither of us."
4 Miss Ainlley?"
" An excellent person, they say; but she lives too far off.
Tell Harry Scott to step up to the rectory, with a request from
you that Caroline I1elstone should come and spend the evening with you."
"' W'ould it not be better to-morrow, dear brother 1"
" I should like her to see the place as it is just now: its
brilliant cleanliness and perfi'ect neatness are so much to your
credit."
"It might benefit her in the way of example."
"It might and must: she ought to come."
He went into the kitchen.
" Sarah, delay tea half an hour."  I-le then commissioned
her to dispatch Harry Scott to the rectory, giving her a twisted
note hastily scribbled in pencil by himself; and addressed " Miss
HIelstone."
Scarcely had Sarah time to get impatient under the fear
of damage to her toast already prepared, when the messenger
returned, and with him the invited guest.
She entered through the kitchen, quietly tripped up Sarah's
stairs to take off her bonnet and furs, and came down as quietly, with her beautiful curls nicely smoothed; her graceful
merino dress and delicate collar all trim and spotless; her gay
little work-bag in her hand.  She lingered to exchange a few
kindly words with Sarah; and to look at the new tortoise-shell
kitten basking on the kitchen hearth; and to speak to the
canary-bird, which a sudden blaze from the fire had startled on
its perch; and then she betook herself to the parlor.
Tl'hc gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were inter




MATTERS MAKE SLOW  R1'OGRESS.    529
changed in such tranquil sort as befitted col.sins meeting; t,
sense of' pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume, diffused itself
through the room; the newly-kindled lamp burned up bright;
the tray and the singing urn were brought in.
"I am pleased to come home," repeated Mr. Moore.
They assembled round the table.  Hortense chiefly talked.
She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in
her health: her color and her plump cheeks were returning,
she remarked. It was true: there was an obvious changre
in Miss Helstone: all about her seemed elastic; depression,
fear, forlornness, were withdrawn: no longer crushed, and sad(lened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one who had
tasted the cordial of heart's-ease, and been lifted on the wing
of hope.
After tea, Hortense went up stairs: she had not rummaged
her drawers for a month past, and the impulse to perform that
operation was now become resistless. During her absence,
the talk passed into Caroline's hands: she took it up with
ease; she fell into her best tone of conversation. A pleasing
facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiar
topics: a new music in the always soft voice gently surprised
and pleasingly captivated the listener; unwonted shades and
lights of expression elevated the young countenance with character, and kindled it with animation.
"Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings," said
Moore, after earnestly gazing at her for some minutes.
"Do I?"
" I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered; but
you cheer me more than I had calculated."
" I am glad of that. And I really cheer you?"
" You look brightly; move buoyantly; speak musically."
"It is pleasant to be here again."
"Truly it is pleasant: I feel it so. And to see health on
your cheek, and hope in your eye, is pleasant, Cary: but what
is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine I perceive
about you?"
"For one thing, I am happy in mamma: I love her so much.
and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me; now,
when her care has made me well, I can occupy myself for and
with her all the day. I say it is my turn to attend to her,
awal I do attend to her: I am hel w aitingu-woman, as well as he'
Z- -




530                  SHIRLEY
ehild: I like-you would laugh if you knew what pleasure I
have in nlaking dresses and sewing for her.  She looks so nice
now, Rtobert: I will not let her be old-fashioned.  And then,
Ihe is charming to talk to: full of wisdom; ripe in judgment 
rich in irfbrrnation; exhaustless in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed. Every day that I live with her,
I like her better; I esteem her more highly; I love her more
tenderly.
"That bor one thing, then, Cary, you talk in such a way
about'mamma,' it is enough to make one jealous of the old
lady."
" She is not old, Robert."
"Of the young. lady, then."
"She does not pretend to be young.
"Well-of the matron. But you said' mamma's' affection
was one thing that made you happy: now for the other thing.'
"I am glad you are better."
"What besides?"
" I am glad we are friends."
"You and I?"
" Yes: I once thought we never should be."
"Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself
that is not to my credit, and, consequently, will not please you."
"Ah! don't! I can not bear to think ill of you."
" And I can not bear that you should think better of me
than I deserve."
"Well, but I half know your'thing:' \ideed, I believe I
know all about it."
" You do not."
" I believe I do."
"Whom does it concern besides me?"
She colored; she hesitated; she was silent.
"Speak, Cary! whom does it concern?"
She tried to utter a name, and could not.
"Tell me: there is none present but ourselves: be frank.''But if I guess wrong?"
"I will forgive.  lWhisper, Cary."
Ile bent his ear to her lips: still she would nr t, or could
not, speak clearly to the point.  Seeing that Moore waited,
and was resolved to hear something, she at last said,
"Miss Keeldar spent a day at the rectory about a week




M.2ATTERS MAKE SLOW  PROGRESS.    531
pinee.  The evening came on very wintery, and we pers;u.aded
her to stay all night."
"And you and she curled your hair together?"
"How do you know that?"
"And then you chatted; and she told you-"
"It was not at curling-hair time; so you are not as wise
as you think: and besides, she didn't tell me."
"You slept together afterw.rd?"
"W e occupied the same room and bed. We did not sleep
much: we talked the whole night through."
"I'll be sworn you did! and then it all came out —tant pis.
iY would rather you had heard it from myself."
"You are quite wrong: she did not tell me what you sus
pect: she is not the person to proclaim such things; but yet
I inferred something from parts of her discourse: I gathered
more from rumor, and I made out the rest by instinct."
" But if she did not tell you that I wanted to marry her for
the sake of her money, and tlhat she refused me indignantly
and scornfully (you need neither start nor blush; nor yet need
you prick your trembling fingers with your needle: that is the
plain truth, whether you like it or not)-if such was not the
subject of her august confidences, on what point did they turn?
You say you talked the whole night through: what about?"
"About things we never thoroughly discussed before, intimate friends as we have been: but you hardly expect I should
tell you?"
" Yes, yes, Cary, you will tell me: you said we were friends
and friends should always confide in each other."
"But you are sure you won't repeat it 2"
" Quite sure."
N" Not to Louis?"
"Not even to Louis?  What does Louis care for young
ladies' secrets?"
"Robert-Shirley is a curio-is, magnanimous being.."
"I dare say: I can imagine there are both odd points and
grand points about her."
"I have found her chary. in showing her feeclings; but
when they rush out, river-like, and pass full and powerful be.
fore you-almost without leave from her-you gaze, wonder,
you admire, and —I think-love her."
"{ You saw this spectacle?'




532                   SHIRLE~.
"Yes; at dead of night; when all the house was silent,
and starlight, and the cold reflection from the snow glimmered
in our chamber-then I saw Shirley's heart."
" Her heart's core? Do yeou think she showed you that?"' Ier heart's core."
" And how was it?"
"Like a shrine-for it was holy; like snow-for it was
pure;:ike flame-for it was warm; like death —for it was
strong."
" Can she love?  Tell me that.
" What think you?"
" She has loved none that have loved her yet."
" Who are those that have loved her?"
lie named a list of gentlemen, closing with Sir Philip Nun
nely.
" She has loved none of these."
" Yet some of them were worthy of a woman's affection."
" Of some women's; but not of Shirley's."
" Is she better than others of her sex V"
" She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take as a wif —
rashly."
"I can imaginb that."
"She spoke of'you-"
"Oh! she did! I thought you denied it."
"She did not speak in the way you fancy; but I asked her,
and I would malko her tell me what she thought of you, or
rather, how she felt toward you. I wanted to know: I had
long wanted to know."
"6 So had I; but let us hear: she thinks meanly-she feels
contemptuously, doubtless?"
"' She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think
of a man. You know she can be eloquent: I yet feel in fancy
the glow of the language in which her opinion was conveyed."
" But how does she feel?"
"Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but
she would not tell me how), she felt as a sister feels toward a
brother of whom she is at once fond and proud."'"I'll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on
myself till I staggered again: but that comparison about sister
anti brother is all nonsense: she is too rich and proud to enc
tert:ln -iaternal sentiments for me."




MATTERS MAKE SLOW  PROGRESS.    533
"You don't know her, Robert; and somehow, I fancy not
(1 had other ideas formerly), that you can not know her:
-oll and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly
to understand each other."
" It may be so.  I esteem her; I admire her; and yet my
impressions concerning her are harsh —perhaps uncharitable.
I believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love —"
"Shirley incapable of love l'
"That she will never marry: I imagine her jealous of
compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of sharing
her property."
"Shirley has hurt your amour-propre."
"' he did hurt it-though I had Hot an emotion of tenderIless, not a spark of passion for her."
" Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want tc
marry her."
" And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I
never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has
line lips, scarlet and round, as ripe as cherries; or, if I did
wish it, it was the mere desire of the eye."
" I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth: ths
grapes or the cherries are sour —' hung too high.'"
"She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair: i
acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them; or only!bel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly
temrpted, by the mere gilding of the bait.  Caroline, what a
noble fellow your Robert is-great, good, disinterested, and
then so pure!"
" But not perfect: he made a great blunder once, an(l we
will hear no more about it."
" And shall we think no more about it, Cary. Shall we
not despise him in our heart, gentle but just, compassionate
but upright?"
"Never! We will remember that with what measure we
mete it shall be measured unto us, and so we will give ne
scorn-only affection."
"Which won't satisfy, I warn you of that.  Something
besides affection-something far stronger, sweeter, warmnerwill be demanded one day: is it there to give?"
Caroline was moved-much moved.
"Be caim, iina." said Moore, soothingly;' I have no in




-534                  SHIRLEY.
tention, because 1 hbave no right, to perturb your mind now
noror for Inonths to come: don't look as if you would leave mre;
we will make no more agitating allusions: we will resume
our gossip.  Do not tremble: look me in the face: see what
ta poor, pale, grim phantom I am-more pitiable than formidable."
She looked shyly.  "There is something formidable still,
pale as you are," she said, as her eye fell under his.
" To return to Shirley," pursued Moore;' is it your opinl
ion that she is ever likely to marry?"
" She loves."
"Platonically —theoretically-all humbug!"
"She loves, what I call, sincerely."
" Did she say so?"
" I can not affirm that she said so: no such confession as
[ love this man or that, passed her lips."
" I thought not."
" But the feeling lmade its way in spite of her, and I saw it.
She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood:
her voice alone was sufficient testimony.  Having wrung
Fiom her an opinion on your character, I demanded a second
opinion of-another person about whom  I had my conjectures; though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectures in the world.  I would make her speak: I shook
her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put
me off with gibes and jests in her queer, provoking way, and
at last, out it carne: the voice, I say, was enough; hardly
raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its
tones. There was no confession- no confidence in the nmatVtr: to these things she can not condescend; but I am sure
that man's happiness is dear to her as her own life."' Who is it?"
"I charged her with the fact; she did not deny; she did
not avow, but looked at me: I saw her eyes by the snowgleam.  It was quite enough: I triumphed over her mercilessly."
" What right had you to triumph?  Do you mean to say
you  are fancy-free i''
" Whateveri I am, Shirley is a bondswoman.  Lioness!
She has found her captor.  Mistress she may be of all round
iere —but her own mistress she is not."



AMNTTERS MAKE SLOW  PROGRESS.    535
So you exulted at recognizing a fellow-slave mn one so fair
and imperial?"
"I did; Robert, you say right, in one so fair and imperial."
"You confess it —afellow-slave."
" I cclfess nothing; but I say that haughty Shirley is no
more free than was Hagar."
"And who, pray, is the Abraham; the hero of a patriarch
who has achieved such a conquest?"         ~.
" You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I
will make you change your note before I have done with you."
Wi   e will see that: can she marry this Cupidon?"
"Cupidon! he is just about as much a Cupidon as you are
a, Cyclops."
" Can she marry him?"
" You will see."
I want to know his name, Cary."
"Guess it."
" Is it any one in this neighborhood?"
"Yes, in Briarfield parish."
" Then it is some person unworthy of her.  I don't know
a soul in Briarfield parish her equal."
" Guess."
" Impossible.  I suppose she is under a delusion, and will
plunge into some absurdity after all."
Caroline smiled.
"Do you approve the choice?" asked Moore.
"Quite, quite."
" Then I am puzzled; for the head which owns this bounteous fall of hazel curls is an excellent little thinking machine,
most accurate in its working: it boasts a correct, steady judgment, inherited from'mamma,' I suppose."
"And I quite approve, and mamma was charmed."
"' Mamma' charmed! Mrs. Pryor. It can't be romantic
then?"
"It is romantic, but it is also right."
"Tell me, Cary. Tell mne out of pity: I am too weak tc
be tantalized."
" You shall be tantalized: it will do you no harm: you
are not so weak as you pretend."
" I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling
on the floor at vour feet."




536                   SHIRLEY.
"You had better not: I shall decline to help you up."
"And worshiping you downright.  My mother was P
Roman Catholic; you look like the loveliest of her picture,
of the Virgin: I think I wll embrace her faith, and kneel
and adore."
" Robert, Robert, sit still; don't be absurd: I will go to
Hortense, if you commit extravagances."
"You have stolen my senses: just now nothing will come
into my mind but' les litanies de la sainte Vierge. Rose
celeste, reine des Anges!'"
"' Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or': is not that the jargon?
W~ell, sit down quietly, and guess your riddle."
"But'mamma' charmed! There's the puzzle."
"I'll tell you what mamma said when I told her:' Depend
upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of
Miss Keeldar's life.'"
" I'll guess once, and no more.  It is old Helstone.  She
is going to be your aunt."
" I'll tell my uncle; i'11 tell Shirley!" cried Caroline,
laughing gleefully.'; Guess again, Robert; your blunders
are charming."
"It is the parson, Hall."
" Indeed, no: he is mine, if you please."
"Yours! Ay! the whole generation of women in Briai
field seem to have made an idol of that priest: I wonder
why: he is bald, sand-blind, gray-haired."
"Fanny will be here to fetch me, before you have solved
the riddle, if you don't make haste."
" I'll guess no more, I am tired: and then I doni't care
Miss Keeldar may marry' le grand Ture' for me."
" Must I whisper?"
"That you must, and quickly: here comes H-lortense;
come near, a little nearer, my own Lina: I care for the
whisper more than the words.'
She whispered: Robert gave a start, a flash of the eye, a
brief laugh: Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind,
with infbrmation that Fanny was come.  The hour of converse was over.
Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered
sentences: he was waiting at the foot of the stair-case, a,t
Caroline descended after putting on her shawl.




MATTERS MA KE SLOW  PROGRE SS.   637
" Must I call Shirley a nol-)e creature no —'?" he asked
"If you wish to speak the truth, certainly."
"' Must I forgive her?"
"Forgive her? Naughty Robert! Was she in the wrong,
or were you?"
"Must I at length love her downlright, Cary?"
Caroline looked keenly up, and made a movement toward
hirn, something between the loving and the petulant.
"Only give the word, and I'll try to obey you."
-' Indeed, you must not love her: the bare idea is perverse.';
"But then she is handsome, peculiarly handsome: hers is
a beauty that grows on you' you think her but graceful,
when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful, when
you have known her for a year."
"It is not you who are to say these things.  Now, Robert,
be good."
"Oh! Cary, I have no love to give.  Were the goddess
of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances: there is
no heart which I can call mine ibn this breast."
" So much the better: you are a great deal safer without:
good-night."
" Why must you always go, Lilap., t the very instant when
I most want you to stay?"
"Because you most wish to retain when you are most cer.
taia to lose."
" Listen; one other word.  Take cor, of your own heart:
do you hear me?"
"There is no danger."
"I am not convinced of that: the Platnnic parson, for instance."
"I Who? Malone?"
" Cyril HIall: I owe more than one twlnmgrr of jealousy to
that quarter."
"As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann: she
showed me the other day a plant you had given he'r  Fanny,
I am ready."




5t38                  S HJ1 IHRL BY.
CHAPTER XXXVI.'WRITTEN IN THE SCIIOOL-RO00
Louis AIOORE's doubts, respecting the immediate evacuationt of Fieldhead by Mr. Sympson, turned out to be perfectly
well founded. The very next day after the grand quarrel
about Sir Philip Nunnely, a sort of reconciliation was patched
up between uncle and niece: Shirley, who could never find in
her heart to be or to seem inhospitable (except in the single
instance of Mr. Donne), begged the whole party to stay a little longer: she begged in such earnest, it was evident she
wished it, for some reason.  They took her at her word; indeed, the uncle could not bring himself to leave her quite unwatched-at full liberty to marry Robert Moore, as soon as
that gentleman should be able (Mr. Sympson piously prayed
this might never be the case) to reassert his supposed pretensions to her hand. They all stayed.
In his first rage against all the house of MlIoore, Mr. Sympson had so conducted himself toward Mi(r. Louis, that that
gentleman-patient of labor oor suffbring, but intolerant of
coarse insolence —had promptly resigned his post, and could
now be induced to resume and retain it only till such time as
the family should quit Yorkshire: Mrs. Sympson's entreaties
prevailed with him thus far; his own attachment to his pupil
r:onstituted an additional motive for concession; and probably
ae had a third motive, stronger than either of tlhe other two:
probably he would have found it very hard indeed to leave
Fieldhead just now.
Things went on, for some time, pretty smoothly: Miss
Keeldar's health was re-established; her spirits resumed their
flow: Mloore had found means to relieve her from every nervmus apprehension; and, indeed, from the moment of giving
him her confidence, every fear seemed to have taken wingl
her heart became as lightsome, her manner as careless, at
those of a little child, that, thoughtless of its own life or death,
trlsl.s all responsibility to its parents.  Ice and WAilliam Far



WRITTEN  IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.               539
ten-through whose medium he made inquiries concerning
the state of' Phoebe-agreed in asserting that the dog was no"t
mad; that it was only ill-usage which had driven her from
home; for it was proved that her master was in the frequel)t
habit of chastising her violently.  Their assertion might, or
might not, be true: the groom and gamekeeper affirmed to
the contrary; both asserting that, if hers was not a clear case
of hydrophobia, there was no such disease. But to this evidernce Louis Moore turned an incredulous ear: he reported to
Shirley only what was encouraging: she believed him; and,
right or wrong, it is certain that in her case the bite proved
innocuous.
November passed; December came: the Sympsons were
now really departing; it was incumbent on them to be at
home by Christmas; their packages were preparing; they
were to leave in a few days.  One winter evening, during the
last week of their stay, Louis Moore again took out his little
blank book, and discoursed with it as follows:
" She is lovelier than ever.  Since that little cloud was
dispelled, all the temporary waste and wanness have vanished. It was marvelous to see how soon the magical energy
of youth raised her elastic, and revived her blooming.
"After breakfast this morning, when I had seen her, and
listened to her, and-so to speak-felt her, in every sentient
a tom of my frame, I passed fiom her sunny presence into the
chill drawing-room.  Taking up a little gilt volume, I found
it to contain a selection of lyrics. I read a poem or two:
whether the spell was in me or in the verse, I know not, but
my heart filled genially-my pulse rose: I glowed, notwitha Landing the frost air. I, too, am young as yet; though she
said she never considered me young, I am barely thirty; there
are moments when life-for no other reason than my own
youth-beams with sweet hues upon me.
"It was time to go to the school-room: I went. That
same school-room is rather pleasant in a morning; the sun
then shines through the low lattice; the books are in order;
there are no papers strewn about; the fire is clear and clean;
no cinders have fallen, no ashes accumulated.  I found Henry
there, and he had brought with him BMiss Keeldar: they were
togethet




540                    SHIRLEY.
"I'  said she was lovelier than ever: she is. A fine rose
not deep but delicate, opens on her cheek; her eye, always
dark, clear, and sparkling, utters now a language I can not
render-it is the utterance, seen not heard, through which angels must have communed when there was' silence in heaven.
IHer hair was always dusk as night, and fine as silk; her nec6k
was always fair, flexible, polished-but both have now a new
charm: the tresses are soft as shadow, the shoulders they fall
on wear a goddess-grace.  Once I only saw her beauty, now
I feel it.
" Henry was repeating his lesson to her before bringing it
to me-one of her hands was occupied with the book, he
held the other: that boy gets more than his share of privileges,
he dares caress and is caressed.  WVhat indulgence and compassion she shows him! Too much: if this went on, Henry,
in a few years, when his soul was formed, would offer it on
her altar as I have offered mine.
" I saw her eyelid flitter when I came in, but she did not
look up: ~now she hardly ever gives me a glance.  She seems
to grow silent too-to rze she rarely speaks, and, when I am
present, she says little to others. In my gloomy moments, I
attribute this change to indifference-aversion-what not?
In my sunny intervals, I give it another meaning: I say,
were I her equal, I could find in this shyness-coyness, and in
that coyness-love.  As it is, dare I look for it?  What
could I do with it, if found?
" This morning I dared, at least, contrive an hour's communion for her and me; I dared not only zwish-but will an
interview with her: I dared summon solitude to guard us
Very decidedly I called Henry to the door: without hesita.
tion, I said,' Go where you will, my boy; but, till I call you,
return not here.'
"Henry, I could see, did not like his dismissal: that boy
is young, but a thinker: his meditative eye shines on me
strangely sometimes: he half feels what links me to Shirley;
he half guesses that there is a dearer delight in the reserve
with which I am treated than in all the endearments he is
allowed.  The young, lame, half-grown lion would growl at
me now and then, because I have tamed his lioness and arr,
her keeper, did not the habit of discipline and the instinct of
afoection hold him subdued   Go, Hel:ry' you must learn to




WRITTEN tN TIIE SCHOOL-ROOINM.               541
take your share of the bitter of life with all of Adam's race
that have gone before or will come after you: your destiny
can be no exception to the common lot: be grateful that your
love is overlooked thus early, before it can claim any affinity
to passion: an hour's fret, a pang of envy suffice to express
what you feel: Jealousy hot as the sun above the line, RLage
destructive as the tropic storm, the clime of your sensations
ignores-as yet.
" I took my usual seat at the desk, quite in my usual way:
I am blessed in that power to cover all inward ebullition with
outward calm.  No one who looks at my slow face can guess
the vortex sometimes whirling in my heart, and ingulfing
thought, and wrecking prudence.  Pleasant is it to have the
gift to proceed peacefully and powerfully in your course without alarming by one eccentric movement. It was not my
present intention to utter one word of love to her, or to reveal
one glimpse of the fire in which I wasted. Presumptuous I
never have been; presumptuous I never will be: rather than
even seem selfish and interested, I would resolutely rise, gird
my loins, part and leave her, and seek, on tbe other side of the
globe, a new life, cold and barren as the rck the salt tide
daily washes.!My design this morning was to take of her a
near scrutiny-to read a line in the page of her heart: before
T left, I determined to know what I was leaving.
" I had some quills to make into pens: most men's hands
%would have trembled when their hearts were so stirred; mine
went to work steadily, and my voice, when I called it into exercise, was firm.
"'This day week you will be alone at Fieldh-ead, Misi
Keeldar.'
"'Yes: I rather think my uncle's intention to go iv a settled one now.'
"' He leaves you dissatisfied.'
"' He is not pleased with me.'
"' He departs as he came-no better for his journey: this
is mortifying.'
"' I trust the failure of his plans will take from him all in.
clination to lay new ones.'
" In his way, Mr. Sympson honestly wished you well.
All lie has done, or intend.ed to;to. he believed to be for theo
best.'




512                   SHIRLEY.
"' You are kind to undertake the defense of a man whlo
tlas permitted himself to treat you with so much insolence.'
"' I never feel shocked at, or bear malice for, what is spok
en in character; and most perfectly in character was that
vulgar and violent onset against me, when he had quitted
you worsted.'
"' You cease now to be Henry's tutor?'
"' I shall be parted from Henry for a while-if he and J
live we shall meet again somehow, for we love each otherand be ousted from the bosom of the Sympson family forever.
IIappily this change does not leave me stranded: it but hurries into premature execution designs long formed.'
"'No change finds you off your guard: I was sure, in your
calm way, you would be prepared fobr sudden mutation. I always think you stand in the world like a solitary, but watchful, thoughtful archer in a wood; and the quiver on your
shoulder holds more arrows than one; your bow is provided
with a second string. Such, too, is your brother's wont. You
two might go forth homeless hunters to the loneliest Western
wilds; all would be well with you. The hewn tree would
make you a hut, the cleared forest yield you fields from its
stripped bosom, the buffalo would feel your rifle-shot, and with
lowered horns and hump pay homage at your feet.'
"' And any Indian tribe of Blackfeet or Flatheads would
afford us a bride, perhaps?'
"'No (hesitating): I'thinmk not.  The savage is sordid: I
think-that is, I hople-you would neither of you share your
hearth with that to which you could not give your heart.'
"' What suggested the wild West to your mind, Miss Keeldar?  Have you been with me in spirit when I did not see
you?  IHave you entered into mny day-dreams, and beheld my
brain laboring at its scheme of a future?'
"She had separated a slip of paper for lighting tapers-a
spill, as it is called-into fiagrments: she threw morsel by
morsel into the fire, and stood pensively watching them con.
same.  She did not speak.
"' How did you learn what you seemn to know about rmy
intentions?'
"'I know nothing: I am only discoveringr them now.: I
Tqoke at hazard.'
"' Your hazard sounds like divination.  A tutor I will nev




WRITTEN  IN THE SCHtOOL-ROOM                 5I3
er be again: never take a pup'l after Henry and yourself: not
again will I sit habitually at another man's table-no more
be the appendage of a family.  I am now a man of thirty:
I have never been free since I was a boy of ten.  I have such
a thirst for freedom-such a deep passion to know her and
call her mine-such a day-desire and night-longing to win
her and possess her, I will not refilse to cross the Atlantic Ibr
her sake: her I will follow deep into virgin woods.  Mine it
shall not be to accept a savage girl as a slave-she could not
be a wife.  I know no white woman whom I love that would
accompany me; but I am certain Liberty will await me, sitting under a pine: when I call her she will come to my loghouse, and she shall fill my arms.'
"' She could not hear me speak so unmoved, and she wa.
moved. It was rirght-I meant to move her. She could not
answer me, nor could she look at me: I should have been
sorry if she could have done either. IHer cheek glowed as if
a crimson flower, through whose petals the sun shone, had
cast its light upon it.  On the white lid and dark lashes of
her downcast eye trembled all that is graceful in the sense of
half-painful, half-pleasing shame.
" Soon she controlled her emotion, and took all her feelings
under command.  I saw she had felt insurrection, and was
waking to empire-she sat down. There was that in her
face which I could read: it said, I see the line which is my
limit-nothing shall make me pass it.  I feel-I know how
far I may reveal my feelings, and-when I must clasp the volurne. I have advanced to a certain distance, as far as the
true, and sovereign, and undegraded nature of my kind permits-lnow here I stand rooted.  My heart may break if it is
baffled: let it break-it shall never dishonor me-it shall
never dishonor my sisterhood in me.  Suffering before degradation! death before treachery 
" I, for my part, said,' If she were poor, I would be at her
feet. If she were lowly, I would take her in my arms. Her
Gold and her Station are two griffins that guard her on each
side  Love looks and longs, and dares not: Passion hovers
round, and is kept at bay: Truth and Devotion are seared.
There is nothing to lose in winning her-no sacrifice to make
—.it is all clear gain, and therefore unimaginably difficult.'
"Difficult or not, somrnetin. must be done  somrnething




5t44                   1i I RL E Y.
must be said.  I could not, and would not, sit sileat with all
that beauty modestly mute in my presence.  I spoke thus,
and still I spoke with calm: quiet as my words were. I could
hear they fell in a tone distinct, round, and deep.
"'Still, I know  I shall be strangely placed with that
mountain nymph, Liberty. She is, I suspect, aikin to that
Solitude which I once wooed, and from which I now seek a
divorce. These Oreads are peculiar: they come upon yoiwith an unearthly charm, like some starlight evening; the3
inspire a wild, but not warm  delight; their beauty is the
beauty of spirits: their grace is not the grace of life, but ot
seasons or scenes in Nature: theirs is the dewy Hloom of
morning-the languid flushl of evening-the peace of the
moon-the changefulness of clouds.  I want and will have
something different.  This elfish splendor looks chill to my
vision, and feela frozen to my touch.  I am not a poet: I can
not live with abstractions.  You, Miss Keeldar, have smetimes, in your laughing satire, called me a material philosopher, and implied that I live sufficiently for the substantial.
Certainly I feel material from head to foot; and glorious as
Nature is, and deeply as I worship her with the solid powers
of a solid heart, I would rather behold her through the soft
human eyes of a loved and lovely wife than through the wild
orbs of the highest goddess of Olympus.'
"'Juno could not cook a buffalo steak as you like it,' said
she.
"'She could not: but I will tell you who could-some
young, penniless, friendless orphan girl.  I wish I could find
such a one: pretty enough for me to love, with something of
the mind and heart suited to my taste: not uneducatedhonest and modest.  I care nothing for attainments; but I
would fain have the germ of those sweet natural powers
which nothing acquired can rival: any temper Fate willsI can manage the hottest.  To such a creature as this I
should like to be first tutor, and then husband.  I would
teach her my language, my habits, and my principles, and
then I would reward her with my love.'
"'  Reward her! lord of the creation!  Reward hew!"
tjaculated she, with a curled lip.
"' And be repaid a thousand-fold.'' If lhe willed it, monseigneur.'




WRITTEN  IN  THE  SCHOOL-ROOM.    545
"' And she should will it.'
"'You have stipulated for any temper Fate wills  Camrn
puision is flint and a blow to the metal of some souls.'
"'And love the spark it elicits.'
"' Who cares for the love that is but a spark-seon flown
upward, and gone.'
"' I must find my orphan girl.  Tell me how, Miss Keeldar.'
"'Advertise; and be sure you add, when you describe the
qualifications, she must be a good plain cook.'
"' I must find her; and when I do find her, I shall marry
her.'
"' Not you!' and her voice took a sudden accent of peculiar scorn.
"I liked this: I had roused her from the pensive mood in
which I had first found her: I would stir her further.
W"'W Vhy doubt it?'
"' You marry!'
"' Yes-of course: nothing more evident than that I can,
and shall.'
"' The contrary is evident, Mr. Moore.'
" She charmed me in this mood; waxing disdainful, half
insulting, pride, temper, derision, blent in her large, fine eye,
that had, just now, the look of a merlin's.
"' Favor me with your reasons for such an opinion, Miss
Keeldar.'
"'How will you manage to marry, I wonder.'
"' I shall manage it with ease and speed when I find the
proper person.'
"'Accept celibacy!' (and she made a gesture with her
hand as if she gave me something),' take it as your doom!'
"'No: you can not give what I already have. Celibacy
has been mine for thirty years. If you wish to offer me a gift,
a parting present, a keepsake, you must change the boon.'
"'. Take worse, then!'
"' Htow?  WThat?'
"I now felt, and looked, and spoke eagerly. I was unwiso
to quit my sheet-anchor of calm even for an instant: it deprived me of an advantage and transferred it tc her. The
little spark of temper dissolved in sarcasm, and eddied over
her countenance in the rip;les of a mocking smile.
A A




54G                   SHIRI EY.
"'''akle a wvife that has paid you court to save your mod
esty, and thrust herself upon you to spare your scruples.'
4"'Ollly show me where.''' Any stout widow that has had a few husbands already
a-nd can manage these things.'
" She must not be rich, then.  Oh, these riches!'
"'Never would you have gathered the produce of' the
gold-bearing garden. You have not courage to confront the
sleepless dragon: you have not craft to borrow the aid of
Atlas!'
"'You look hot and haughty.'
"'And you far haughtier.  Yours is the monstrous pride
which counterfeits humility.'
"' I am a dependant: I know my place.'
"' I am a woman: I know mine.''' I am poor: I must be proud.'
"' I have received ordinances, and own obligations stringent
tas yours.
" We had reached a critical point now, and we halted and
looked at each other.  She would not give in, I felt. Beyond
this, I neither felt nor saw. A few moments yet were mine'
the end was coming-I heard its rush-but not come, I would
dally, wait, talk, and, when impulse urged, I would act. I
a.m never in a hurry: I never was in a hurry in my whole
ii-e. Hasty people drink the nectar of existence scalding hot 
I taste it cool as dew. I proceeded:
"'Apparently, Miss Keeldar, you are as little likely to
marry as myself: I know you have refused three, nay, four
advantageous offers, and, I believe, a fifth. Have you reject
ed Sir Philip Nunnely?'
"I put this question suddenly and promptly.
"' Did you think I should take him.'
"' I thought you might.'
"'On what grounds, may I ask?'
"'Conformity of rank; age; pleasing contrast of temper,
for 7te is mild and amiable; harmony of intellectual tastes.'
"'A beautiful sentence! Let us take it to pieces. "Conformity of rank."  He is quite above me: compare my grange
with his palace, if you please: I am disdained by his kith and
kin. " Suitability of age."  We were born in the same year;
consequently, he is still a boy, while I am a worman: ten yeahs




vWRITTEN  IN  TIlE  SCHOOL-ROO.M.    547
his senior to all intents and purposes.  " Contrast of temper."
Mild and amiable, is he: I-what?  Tell me.'
"' Sister of the spotted, bright, quick, fiery leopard.'
"' And you would mate me with a kid-the Millenniulm
being yet millions of centuries from mankind; being yet, indeed, an Archangel high in the seventh heaven, uncommissioned to descend. Unjust barbarian! "Harmony of intel.
lectual tastes." He is fbnd of poetry, and I hate it.'
"'Do you 1 That is news.'
"' I absolutely shudder at the sight of meter or at the sound
of rhyme, whenever I am at the Priory or Sir Philip at Field
head. Harmony, indeed! When did I whip up syllabub
sonnets, or string stanzas fragile as fragments of glass. and
when did I betray a belief that those penny-beads were genuine brilliants?'
"' You might have the satisfaction of leading him to a
higher standard-of improving his tastes.'''Leading and improving! teaching and tutoring! bearing and forbearing! Pah! My husband is not to be my
baby. I am not to set him his daily lesson and see that he
learns it, and give him a sugar-plum if he is good, and a patient, pensive, pathetic lecture if he is bad. But it is like a
tutor to talk of the " satisfaction of teaching"-I suppose you
think it the finest employment in the world.  I don't-I re-'ect it. Improving a husband! No. I shall insist upon my
husband improving me, or else we part.'
"' God knows it is needed!'
"' What do you mean by that, Mr. Moore?'
"'What I say. Improvement is imperatively needed.'
" If you were a woman you would school monsieur, votre
mari, charmingly: it would just suit you; schooling is your
qocation.'
"' May I ask whether, in your present just and gentle
mood, you mean to taunt me with being a tutor 2'
"' Yes-bitterly; and with any thing else you please: any
defect of which you are painfully conscious.'
"' With being poor, for instance?'
"' Of course; that will sting you; you are sore about yore
poverty: you brood over that.'
"' With having nothing but a very plain person to offet
the woman who may mlaster my heart?'




5458                 BSHI RL EY.'Exactly.  You have a habit of calling yourself plain
You are sensitive about the cut of your features, because they
are not quite on an Apollo pattern. You abuse them more
than is needful, in the faint hope that others may say a word
in their behalf-which won't happen. Your face is nothing
to boast of, certainly: not a pretty line, nor a pretty tint, to
be found therein.''Compare it with your own.'
"' It looks like a god of Egypt: a great sand-buried stone
head; or rather I will compare it to nothing so lofty: it
looks like Tartar: you are my mastiff's cousin: I think you
as mulh.like him as a man can be like a dog.'
".'Tartar is your dear companion.  In summer, when you
rise early, and run out into the fields to wet your feet with
the dew, and freshen your cheek and uncurl your hair with
the breeze, you always call him to follow you: you call him
sometimes with a whistle that you learned from me. In the
solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Tartar is
listening, you whistle the very tunes you imitated from my
lips, or sing the very songs you have caught up by ear from
my voice: I do not ask whence flows the feeling which you
pour into these songs, for I know it flows out of your heart,
Miss Keeldar. In the winter evenings, Tartar lies at your
feet: you suffer him to rest his head on your perfumed lap;
you let him couch on the borders of your satin raiment: his
rough hide is familiar with the contact of your hand: I once
saw you kiss him on that snow-white beauty-spot which stars
his broad forehead. It is dangerous to say I am like Tartar:
it suggests to me a claim to be treated like Tartar.'
"' Perhaps, sir, you can extort as much from your penniless and friendless young orphan girl, when you find her.'
"'Oh! could I find her such as I image her.  Something
to tame first, and teach afterward: to break in, and then to
fondle. To lift the destitute proud thing out of poverty; to
establish power over, and then to be indulgent to the capri.
cious moods that never were influenced and never indulged beo
fore; to see her alternately irritated and subdued about twelve
times in the twenty-four hours; and perhaps, eventually, when
ncer training was accomplished, to behold her the exemplary
and patient mother of about a dozen children, only now and
then iending little Louis a cordial cuff by way of paying thl,




WRITTEN  IN  THE  SCHOOL-R(OM               549
interest of the vast debt she owes his father.  Oh!i (I went
on)'my orphan girl would give me many a kiss; she would
watch on the threshold for my coming home of an evening;
she would run into my arms; she would kecp my hearth as
bright as she would make it warm.  Go'i oless the sweet
idea! Find her I must.'
"Her eyes emitted an eager flash, her Aps opened; but she
reclosed them, and impetuously turned a. way.
"'Tell me, tell me where she is, D~aies Keeldar!'
"Another movement: all haugltiness, and fire, ar.; ix,r
pulse.
"' I must know. You can teal me. You shall tell me.'
"' I never will.'
"She turned to leave me.  C(ould I now let her part as
she had always parted front me?  No: I had gone too far
not to finish. I had come toio near the end not to drive home
to it. All the encumbrance of doubt, all the rubbish of indecision must be removed Ea once, and the plain truth must be
ascertained.  She must take her part, and tell me what it
was. I must take mine, and adhere to it.
"'A  minute, mailhrn,' I said, keeping my hand on the
door-handle before 1 opeled it.' We have had a long conversation this mornmng, "3ut the last word has not been spoken
yet.: it is yours to speak it.'
"May I pass i'
"'No. I guard the door. I would almost rather die than
let you leave Iaie just now, without speaking the word I demand.'
"' What doae you expect me to say?'
"'W That I am dying and perishing to hear; what I must
and will hear; what you dare not now suppress.'
"' Mr. Moore, I hardly know what you mean: you are not
like yourself.'
" I suppose I hardly was like my usual se;, for I scared her;
that I could see: it was right; she must be seared to be won.
"' You do know what I mean, and for the first time I
stand before you myself. I have flung off the tutor, and beg
to introduce you to tha man: and, remember, he is a gentle.
man.'
" She trembled. She put her hand to mine as if to remove
it from the lock; she might as well have tried to loosen, by




550                   SHIRLEY.
her soft tou'Ch, metal welded to metal. She feli she was pow
erlcss, and receded; and again she trembled.
"5What change I underwent, I can not explain; but outof
her emotion passed into me a new spirit. I neither was crusht
ed nor elated by her lands and gold; I thought not of them,
cared not for them: they were nothing: dross that could not
dismay me. I saw only herself; her young, beautiful form;
the grace, the majesty, the modesty of her girlhood
"'My pupil,' I said.
"'My master,' was the low answer
"' I have a thing to tell you.'
"She waited with declined brow, and ringlets drooped.
"'I have to tell you, that for four years you have been
growing into your tutor's heart, and that you are rooted there
now. I have to declare that you have bewitched me, in
spite of' sense and experience, and difference of station and
estate: you have so looked, and spoken, and moved; so
shown me your faults and your virtues-beauties rather;
they are hardly so stern as virtues-that I love you-love
you with my life and strength. It is out now.'
"She sought what to say, but could not find a word: she
tried to rally, but vainly.  I passionately repeated that J
loved her.
"' WNell, Mr. Moore, what then?' was the answer I gob,
uttered in a tone that would have been petulant, if it had
not faltered.
"' Have you nothing to say to me? Have you no love for
ne 9?
A" A little bit.'
"' I am not to be tortured: I will not. even play at present,'
"' I don't want to play: I want to go.'
I' I wonder you dare speak of going at this moment.  You
go! What! with my heart in your hand, to lay it on your
toilet and pierce it with your pins? From my presence you
do not stir; out of my reach you do not stray, till I receive a
hostage-pledge for pledge-your heart for mine.'
"' The thing you want is mislaid-lost some time since
let me go and seek it.'
"''Declare that it is where your keys often are-in nly
possession.'
"'You ought to know. And where are my keys, Mi.




WRITTEN IN  THE SCHOOL-ROOM.                  551
Moore': indeed and truly, I have lost them agatin; and Mrs.
Gill wants some money, and I have none, except this sixpence.'
" She took the coin out of her apron-pocket,.nd showed it
in her palm.  I could have trifled with her; but it would
not do: life and death were at stake.  Mastering at once the
fixpence and the hand that held it, I demanded"' Am I to die without you, or am I to live for you?'
"' Do as you please: far be it from me to dictate you3
choice.'
"' You shall tell me with your own lips, whether you doom
me to exile, or call me to hope.'
"'Go.  I can bear to be left.'
"' Perhaps, I too can bear to leave. you: but reply, Shirley,
my pupil, my sovereign —reply.'
"' Die without me, if you will.  Live for me, if you dare.'
"' I am not afraid of you, my leopardess: I dare live for
and with you, fiom this hour till my death.  Now, then, 1
have you: you are mine: I will never let you go.  WVherever my home be, I have chosen my wife.  If I stay in En.
gland, in England you will stay; if I cross the Atlantic, you
will cross it also: our lives are riveted; our lots intertwined.'
"' And are we equal then, sir?  Are we equal at last?'
6' C You are younger, frailer, feebler, more ignorant than I.
"' Will you be good to me, and never tyrannize V'
"' Will you let me breathe, and not bewilder me?  Yoll
must not smile at present.  The world swims and changes
round me. The sun is a dizzying scarlet blaze; the sky a
violet vertex whirling over me.'
" I am  a strong man, but I staggered as I spoke.  All
creation was exaggerated: colors grew more vivid; motion
more rapid; life itself more vital.  I hardly saw her for a
moment; but I heard her voice-pitilessly sweet.  She would
not subdue one of her charms in compassion: perhaps slhc did
not know what I felt.
"' You name me leopardess: remember, the leopardess is
tameless,' said she.
"' ITame or fierce, wild or subdued, you are mine.'
"'  I am glad I know my keeper, and am used to him
Only his voice will I follow; only his hand shall manage me,
only at his feet will I repose.'




552                    SHIRLEY.
" I took her back to her seat, and sat down by her side: I
wantel to hear her speak again: I coull never have enough
of her voice and her words.
"' hIow much do you love me?' I asked.
Ah! you know: I will not gratify you: I will not flatter.;' I don't know half enough: my heart craves to be fed.
If you knew how hungry and ferocious it is, you would hasten
to stay it with a kind word or two.'
"' Poor Tartar!' said she, touching and patting my hand:' poor fellow; stalwart friend; Shirley's pet and favorite, lie
down!'
"' But.I will not lie down till I am fed with one sweet
word.'
"And at last she gave it.
"' Dear Louis, be faithful to me: never leave me.  I don't
care for life, unless I may pass it at your side.'
"' Something more.'
"She gave me a change: it was not her way to offer the
same dish twice.
"' Sir!' she said, starting up,'at your peril, you ever
again name such sordid things as money, or poverty, or-inequality. It will be absolutely dangerous to torment me with
these maddening scruples.  I defy you to do it.'
" My face grew hot. I did once more wish I were not so
poor, or she were not so rich. She saw the transient misery;
aind then, indeed, she caressed me.  Blent with torment,.I
experienced rapture.
"'Mr. Moore,' said she, looking up with a sweet, open,
earnest countenance,' teach me and help me to be good. I
do not ask you to take off my shoulders all the cares and
duties of property; but I ask you to share the burden, and to
show me how to sustain my part well. Your judgment is
well-balanced; your heart is kind; your principles are sound.
I know you are wise; I feel you are benevolent; I believe
you are conscientious. Be my companion through life; be
my guide where I am ignorant; be my master where I am
faulty; be my friend always!'
"' So help me God, I will!'"
Yet again, a passage from the blank book, if you like, reader e
if you don't like it, pass it over:




WRITTEN IN THIE SCHOOL-RiOOMM.               553
"The Sympsons are gone; but not before discovery and ex
planation.  My manner must have betrayed something, om
my looks: I was quiet, but I forgot to be guarded sometimes.
I stayed longer in the room than usual; I could not bear to
he out of her presence; I returned to it, and basked in it, like
Tartar in the sun.  If she left the oak-parlor, instinctively T
rose, and left it too.  She chid me for this procedure more
than once: I did it with a vague, blundering idea of getting
a word with her in the hall, or elsewhere. Yesterday, toward dusk, I had her to myself fobr five minutes, by the hall.
fire: we stood side by side; she was railing at me, and I was
enjoying the sound of her voice: the young ladies passed, and
looked at us; we did not separate: ere long, they repassed,
and again looked.  Mrs. Sympson came; we did not move
Mr. Sympson opened the dining-room door; Shirley flashed
him back full payment for his spying gaze: she curled her
Lip, and tossed her tresses. The glance she gave was at once
explanatory and defiant; it said-' I like Mr. Moore's society,
and I dare you to find fault with my taste.'
"' I asked,'Do you mean him to understand how matters
are?''' I do,' said she;'but I leave the development to chance.
There will be a scene.  I neither invite it nor fear it-only,
you must be present; for I am inexpressibly tired of facir.g
him solus.  I don't like to see him in a rage; he then puts
off all his fine proprieties and conventional disguises, and the
real human being below is what you would call " commum,
plat, bas-vilain et un peu m6chant."  His ideas are not
clean, Mr. Moore; they want scouring with soft soap and
fuller's earth.  I think, if he could add his imagination to the
contents of Mrs. Gill's bucking-basket, and let her boil it in
her copper, with rain-water and bleaching-powder (I hope you
think me a tolerable laundress), it would do him incalculable
good.'
"This morning, fancying I heard her descend somewhat
early, I was down instantly. I had not been deceived: there
she was, busy at work, in the breakfast-parlor, of which the
housemaid was completing the arrangement and dusting
She had risen betimes to finish some little keepsake she in
tended for Henry.  I got only a cool reception; which I ac.
ceptc(l till the girl was gone, taking my book to the wIndow.
A A*




554                   81 ItRL I E Y.
seat very quietly.  Even when we were alone, I was slow te,
disturb her: to sit with her in sight was happiness, an- the
proper happiness for early morning-serene, incomplete, but
progressive.  Had I been obtrusive, I knew I should have
encountered rebuff.' Not at home to suitors,' was written onr
her brow; therefore, I read on-stole, now and then, a look
watched her countenance soften and open, as she felt I re.
spected her mood, and enjoyed the gentle content of the mo.
ment.
"The distance between us shrank, and the light hoarfrost
thawed insensibly: ere an hour elapsed, I was at her side,
watching her sew, gathering her sweet smiles and her merry
words, which fell for me abundantly.  We sat, as we had a
right to sit, side by side: my arm rested on her chair; I waS
iear enough to count the stitches of her work, ani- to discern
the eye of her needle.  The door suddenly opened.
a: I believe, if I had just then started from her, she would
have despised me: thanks to the phlegm  of my nature, I
rarely start.  When I am well off, bien, comfortable, I am
not soon stirred: bien I was-tres bien-consequently, immu.
table: no muscle moved.  I hardly looked to the door.
"' Good-morning, uncle,' said she, addressing that personage; who paused on the threshold in a state of petrifaction.
"'Have you been long down stairs, MIiss Keeldar, ani
alone with Mr. Moore?'
"'Yes, a very long time: we both came down early; it
was scarcely light.'
"' The proceeding is improper-'
"' It was at first: I was rather cross, and not civil; but
you will perceive that we are now friends.'
"'I perceive more than you would wish me to perceive.'
"'Hardly, sir,' said I:'we have no disguises.  Will you
permit me to intimate, that any further observations you have
to make may as well be addressed to me.  Henceforward, I
stand between Miss Keeldar and all annoyance.'
"' Youz!  What have yozt to do with MAiss Kee(lar?'
"'To protect, watch over, serve her.'
"' You, sir? you, the tutor?'
"' Not one word of insult, sir,' interposed she''not one
syllable of disrespect to Mr. Moore. in this house.'' I Do you take his part?'




WRITTEN  IN THE SCHOOL-ROOL-ROOM.    555
H'  is part! Oh, yes!'
S' She turned to me with a sulddn, fond movement, whice
I met by circling her with my arm.  She and I both rose.
-Good Ged!' was the cry from the morning-gown standign quivering at the door.  God, I think, must be the cognomen of Mr. Sympson's Lares: when hard-pressed, he always
invokes this idol.
"' Come forward. uncle: you shall hear all. Tell him all,
Louis.'
"' I dare him to speak! The beggar! the knave! the
specious hypocrite! the vile, insinuating, infamous menial'
Stand apart from my niece, sir: let her go!'
"She clung to me with energy.'I am near my future
husband,' she said:'who dares touch him or me?'
"' Her husband!' he raised and spread his hands: hE
dropped into a seat.
"' A while ago, you wanted much to know whom I meant
to marry: my intention was then formed, but not mature for
communication; now it is ripe, sun-mellowed, perfect: take
the crimson peach-take Louis lMoore!'
"'But' (savagely)'you shall not have him-he shall not
have you.'
"'I I would die before I would have another.  I would die
if I might not have him.'
" He uttered words with which this page shall never be
polluted.
" She turned white as death: she shook all over: she lost
her strength.  I laid her down on the sofa; jusA looked to
ascertain that she had not fainted-of which, with a divine
smile, she assured me; I kissed her, and then, if I were to
perish, I can not give a clear account of what happened in
the course of the next five minutes: she has since-through
tears, laughter, and trembling-told me that I turned terrible, and gave myself to the demon; she says I left her, made
one bound across the room-that Mr. Sympson vanished
through the door as if shot from a cannon-I also vanished.
and she heard Mrs. Gill scream.
" Mrs. G(ill was still screaming when I came to my senses
I was then in another apartment-the Cak parlor, I think: i
held. Sympson before me crushed into a chair, and my hand
was on his cravat: his eyes rolled in his head-I *was stran,




556                   SHIRLEY.
gling him, I think: the housekeeper stood wringing bill hands
entrcating rae to desist; I desisted that moment, and felt at once
as cool as stone. But I told Mrs. Gill to fetch the Rled-House
Inn chaise instantly, and informed MIr. Sympson he must depart from Fieldhead the instant it came: though half-fright'
ened out of his wits, he declared he would not. Repeating
the former order, I added a commission to fetch a constable.
I said:
"' You shall go-by fair means or foul.'
" He threatened prosecution —I cared for nothing: I had
stood over him once before, not quite so fiercely as now, but
fPill as austerely.  It was one night when burglars attempted
the house at Sympson Grove; and in his wretched cowardice
he would have given a vain alarm, without daring to offer
defense: I had then been obliged to protect his family and
his abode by mastering himself —and I had succeeded. I
now remained with him till the chaise came: I marshaled
hun to it, he scolding all the way. He was terribly bewildtered, as well as enraged; he would have resisted me, but
knew not how: he called for his wife and daughters to come.
I said they should follow him as soon as they could prepare:
the smoke, the fume, the fret of his demeanor was inexpressible, but it was a fuiry incapable of producing a deed: that
man, properly handled, must ever remain impotent. I know
he will never touch me with the law: I know his wife, ovei
whom he tyrannizes in trifles, guides him in matters of importance.  I have long since earned her undying mothers'
gratitude by my devotio-a to her boy: in some of Henry's ailments I have nursed him-better, she said, than any womarn
could nurse: she will never forget that. She and her daughters left me to-day, in mute wrath and consternation-but
she respects me. When Henry clung to my neck, as I lifted
him into the carriage and placed him by her side —when I
arranged her owvn wrapping to make her warm, though she
turned her head from me, I saE.w the tears start to her eyes.
She will but the more zealously advocate my cause, because
she has left me in anger.  I am glad of this: not for my owni
sake, but for that of my life and idol-my Shirley.'"
Once again he writes-a week after:
" I am now at Stilbro': I have taken up my temporar)
abode with a friend-a professional man —in whose business




WRITTEN IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.                   557
carl be useful.  Every day I ride over to Fieldhead.  HIow
oanug will it be before I can call that place my home, and its
nistress mine?  I am not easy-not tranquil: I am tantalLzed-sometimes tortured.  To see her now, one would think
she had never pressed her cheek to may shoulder, or clung to
me with tenderness or trust.  I feel unsafe: she renders me
miserable: I am shunned when I visit her: she withdraws
from my reach. Once, this day, I lifted her face, resolved to
get a full look down her deep, dark eyes: difficult to describe
what I read there! Pantheress! beautiful forest born! wily,
tameless, peerless nature! She gnaws her chain: I see the
white teeth wdrking at the steel! She has dreams of her wild
woods, and pinings after virgin freedom. I wish Sympson
would come again, and- oblige her again to entwine her arms
about me.  I wish there was danger she should lose me, as
there is risk I shall lose her.  No: final loss, I do not fear;
hlt long delay"It is new night-midnight.  I have spent the afternoor.
and evening at Fieldhead. Some hours ago she passed me,
comingr down the oak stair-case to the hall: she did not know
I was standing in the twilight, near the stair-case window,
lookingr at the frost-bright constellations.  IIow closely she
glided against the banisters! How shyly shone her large eyes
upon me! How evanescent, fugitive, fitful, she looked-slin
and swift as a Northern Streamer!
",I followed her into the drawing-room: Mrs. Pryor and
Caroline Helstone were both there: she has summoned them
to bear her company a while. In her white evening dress;
with her long hair flowing full and wavy; with her noiseless
step, her pale cheek, her eye fill of night and lightning, she
looked, I thought, spirit-like-a thing made of an elementthe child of a breeze and a flame-the daughter of ray and
rain-drop-a thing never to be overtaken, arrested, fixed.  I
wished I could avoid following her with my gaze, as she moved
here and there, but it was impossible. I talked with the other
ladies as well as I could, but still I looked at her. She was
~very silent: I think she never spoke to me, not even when she
offered me tea.  It happened that she was called out a minute
by Mrs. Gill.  I passed into the moon-lit hall, with the design
of getting a word as she returned; nor in this did I fail."
"' Miss Keeldar, stay one instant!' said I, meeting her.




5,8                   SHIRLEY.
"' Why? the hall is too cold.'
"' I t is not cold for me: at my side, it should not be stJ
for you.'
" But I shiver.'
"' With fear, I believe.  M~hat malies you fear me?  You
are quiet and distant: why?'
"' I may well fear what looks like a great dark goblin meeting me in the moonlight.'' Do not-do not pass! stay with me a while: let us ex.
crange a few quiet words. It is three days since I spoke to
you alone: such changes are cruel.'
"' I have no wish to be cruel,' she responded, softly enough:
indeed, there was softness in her whole deportment-in her
face, in her voice; but there was also reserve, anc  an air
fleeting, evanishing, intangible.
"'You certainly give me pain,' said I.' It is hardly a
week since you called me your future husband, and treated
me as such; now I am once more the tutor for you: I am
addressed as Mr. Moore, and sir; your lips have fbrgotten
Louis.'
"'No, Louis, no: it is an easy, liquid name; not soon forgotten.'
"'Be cordial to Louis, then: approach him-let him approach.'
"'I can cordial,' said she, hovering aloof like a white
shadow.
"'Your voice is very sweet, and very low,' I answered,
quietly advancing:'you seem subdued, but still startled.'
"'No-quite calm, and afraid of nothing,' she assured me
"'Of nothing but your votary.'
"' I bent a knee to the flags at her feet.
"' You see I am in a new world, Mr. Moore.  I don't know
myself-I don't know you: but rise; when you do so, I feel
troubled and disturbed.'
"I obeyed: it would not have suited me to retain that attitude long. I courted serenity and confidence for her, and
not vainly: she trusted, and clung to me again.
"'Now, Shirley,' I said,'you can conceive I am far from
happy in my present uncertain, unsettled state.'
"'Oh, yes; you are happy!' she cried, hastily:'you don't
know how happy you are! any change will be for the worse I




THE WINDING UP.                     559
Happy or not;,  can not bear to go on so much longer'
voi are too generous to require it.'
"'1Be reasonable, Louis-be patient! I like you because
you are patient.'
"' Like me no longer, then —love me instead: fix our mark
iiage-day.  Think of it to-night, and decide.'
"She breathed a murmur, inarticulate yet expressive; dart.
ed, or melted, from my arms-and I lost her."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
TILE WINDING UP.
YES, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only
briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the personages
whose acquaintance we have made in this narrative, and then
you and I must shake hands, and for the present separate.
Let us turn to the Curates-to the much-loved, though
ong-neglected.  Come forward, modest merit!  Malone, I;ee, promptly answers the invocation: he knows his own de
seription when he hears it.
No, Peter Augustus, we can have nothing to say to you:
it won't do. Impossible to trust ourselves with the touching
tale of your deeds and destinies. Are you not aware, Peter,
that a discriminating public has its crotchets: that the unvarnished truth does not answer; that plain facts will not
digest? Do you not know that the squeak of the real pig is
no more relished now than it was in days of yore?  Were I
to give the catastrophe of your life and conversation, the publie would sweep off in shrieking hysterics, and there would be
a wild cry for sal-volatile and burned feathers. " Impossible!"
would be pronounced here: "untrue!" would be responded
there. "Inartistic!" would be solemnly decided. Note well!
Whenever you present the actual, simple truth, it is, some.
how, always denounced as a lie: they disown it, cast it ofi;
throw it on the parish; whereas the product of your own imrn
agination, the mere figment, the sheer fiction, is adopted, pet




560                   SHIRLEY.
ted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural: the little spuriou.
wretch gets all the comfits-the honest, lawful bantling, all
the cuffl. Such is the way of the world, Peter; arid, as you
are the legitimate urchin, rude, unwashed, and naughty, you
must stand down.
Make way for Mr. Sweeting.
Here he comes, with his lady on his arm; the rmost splendid and the weightiest woman in Yorkshire' Mrs. Sweeting,
formerly Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the
happiest auspices, Mr. Sweeting having been just inducted
to a comfortable living, and Mr. Sykes being in circumstances
to give Dora a handsome portion. They lived long and happily together, beloved by their parishioners, and by a numerous circle of friends.
There! I think the varnish has been put on very nicely.
Advance, Mr. Donne.
This gentleman turned out admirably: far better thar
either you or I could possibly have expected, roader. II-I
too, married a most sensible, quiet, lady-like little woman.
the match was the making of him: he became an exemplary
domestic character, and a truly active parish-priest (as a pastor, he, to his dying day, conscientiously refused to act). The
outside of the cup and platter he burnished up with the best
polishing-powder; the furniture of the altar and temple he
looked after with the zeal of an upholsterer-the care of a
cabinet-maker. His little school, his little church, his little
parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and they did him
credit: each was a model in its way: if uniformity and taste
in architecture had been the same thing as consistency and
earnestness in religion, what a shepherd of a Christiua flock
Mr. Donne would have made! There was one art in the
mastery of which nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr. Donne
— it was that of begging. By his own unassisted efforts, he
begged all the money fbr all his erections. In this matter he
had a grasp of plan, a scope of action quite unique; he begged
of high and low —of the shoeless cottage brat arind the coroneted duke: he sent out begging-letters far and wide-to old
Queen Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her sons
the royal dukes, to the Prince Regent, to Lord Castlereagh,
to every member of the ministry then in office; and, what is
more remarkable, he screwed something out of every one of




THE WINDING UP.                    561
tiese personages. It is on record that he got five pounds
fiom  the close-fisted old lady, Queen Charlotte, and two
guineas fiom the royal profligate, her eldest son. When Mr.
Donne set out on begging expeditions, he armed himself in a
complete suit of brazen mail: that you had given a hundred
pounds yesterday, was, with him, no reason why you should
not give two hundred to-day: he would tell you so to your
face, and ten to one, get the money out of you: people gave
to get rid of him. After all, he did some good with the cash;
he was useful in his day and generation.
Perhaps I ought to remark, that on the premature and
sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield
parish (you can not know how it happened, reader; your curiosity must be robbed to pay your elegant love of the pretty
and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to be able to inform you.
with truth, that this gentleman did as much credit to his
country as Malone had done it discredit: he proved himself
as decent, decorous, and conscientious, as Peter was rampant,
boisterous, and     (this last epithet I choose to suppress.
because it would let the cat out of the bag). He labored
faithfully in the parish: the schools, both Sunday and dayschools, flourished under his sway like green bay-trees. Being human, of course he had his faults; these, however, were
proper, steady-going, clerical faults; what many would call
virtues: the circumstance of finding'himself invited to tea
with a Dissenter would unhinge him for a week; the spec.
tacle of a Quaker wearing his hat in the church-the thought
of an unbaptized fellow-creature being interred with Christian
rites-these things could make strange havoc in Mr. Macarthey's physical and mental economy; otherwise, he was sane
and rational, diligent and charitable.
I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked, ere
this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissness in pursuing, catching, and bringing to condign punishment the
would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore: here was a fine
opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at once decorous
and exciting: a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon, the
dock, and the " dead-thraw." You might have liked it, read.
er, but I should not: I and my subject would presently have
quarreled, and then I should have broken down: I was hap




.G5,                   S H  SHIRLEY.
py to find tllhat facts perfectly exonerated me from the attempt.
The murderer was never punished; for the good reason, that
lie was never caughtl; the result of the fuirther circumstance,
that he was never pursued.  The magistrates made a shufflingr, as if they were going to rise and do valiant things; but,
since Moore himself, instead of urging and leading the-m as
heretofore, lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughinr in his
sleeve and sneering with every feature of his pale, foreign face,
they considered better of it; and, after fulfilling certain indispensable forms, prudently resolved to let the matter quietl3
drop: which they did.
iMr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew.
it was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver
once before alluded to, a frantic Antinornian in religion, and a
mad leveler in politics; the poor soul died of delirium tremens
a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his
wretched w-idow a guinea to bury him.
The winter is over and gone: spring has followed with
beamty and shadowy, with flowery and showery flight: we are
nowJ i-n the heart of' summer -in mid-Junle-the June of 1812.
it is burning  weather: the air is deep azure and red gold
it fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the
nations.  The nineteenth century waatons in its giant adoles.
cence: the Titan-boy uproots mnountains in his game, and hurls
rocks in his wild sport.  This su;mmlner, Bonaparte is in the
saddle: he and his host scour Russian deserts: he has with
him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children of the Rhine,
six hundred thousand strong.  He marches on old Moscow:
under old Moscow's walls the rude Cossack waits him   Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the boundless ruin rolling on.  He puts his trust in a snow-cloud: the Wilderness,
the Wind, and the Hail-Storm are his refuge: his allies are
the elements-Air, Fire, Water. And what are there? Three
terrible Archangels ever stationed before the throne of Jehovalh.  They stand clothed in white, girdled witth golden girdles; they uplift vials briimning with the wrath of God.
Their time is the day of vengeance; their signal the word of
the Lord of Hosts, "thundering with the voice of His excel
lency."'" fiast thou entered into the treasures ofthe snow? or hasi




THE WINDING  UP.                    563
thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have recelvea
against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and war I
"Go your ways: Itour out the vials of the wrath of God
upon the earth."
It is done: the earth is scorched with fire: the sea becomes
"as the blood of a dead man:" the islands flee away; the
mountains are not found.
In this year Lord Wellington assumed the reins in Spain
they made him Generalissimo for their own salvation's sake.
Tn this year he took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria,
he captured Pampeluna, he stormed St. Sebastian; in this
year he won Salamanca.
Men of Manchester! I beg your pardon for this slight resume of warlike facts: but it is of no consequence.  Lord
WAfellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now: I
rather think some of you have called him a " dotard"-you
have taunted him with his age, and the loss of his physical
vigor.  What fine heroes you are yourselves! v Men like you
have a right to trample on what is mortal in a demi-god
Scoff at your ease-your scorn can never break his grand, old
heart.
But come, friends, whether Quakers or Cotton-printers, let
us hold a Peace-Congress, and let out our venom quietly.
We have been talking with unseemly zeal about bloody battles and butchering generals; we arrive now at a triumph in
your line.  On the 18th of June, 1812, the Orders in Council
were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown open.  You
know very well-such of you as are old enough to remember
-you made Yorkshire and Lancashire shake with your shout
on that occasion: the ringers cracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; it is dissonant to this day. The Association of Merchants
and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and one and
all went home in such a plight as their wives would never
wish to witness more.  Liverpool started and snorted like a
river-horse roused among his reeds by thunder. Some of the
American merchants felt threatenings of apoplexy, and had
themselves bled: all, like wise men, at this first moment of
prosperity, prepared to rush into the bowels of speculation, and
to delve new difficulties, in whose depths they might lose them.
selves at some future day.  Stocks, which had been accumulating for years now went off in a moment, in the twinkling




564                   SHIRLEY.
of an eye; warehouses were lightened, ships were ladlen; wors
abounded, wages rose: the good time seemed come.  These
prospects might be delusive, but they were brilliant-to some
they were even true. At that epoch, in that single month of
June, many a solid fortune was realized.
When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its inhabitants taste a festal feeling: the sound of public bells rouses
the most secluded abode, as if with a call to be gay.  And se
Caroline Helstone thought, when she dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph, and went,
attired in her neatest muslin, to spend the afternoon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain millinery preparations for a
great event: the last appeal in these matters being reserved
ibr her unimpeachable taste. She decided on the wreath, the
veil, the dress to be worn at the altar: she chose various robes
and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without much referenee to the bride's opinion; that lady, indeed, being in a somewhat-impractica.ble mood.
Louis had presaged difficulties, and he had found them: in
fact, his mistress had shown herself exquisitely provoking; putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by
month.  At first coaxing him with soft pretenses of procrastination, and in the end rousing his whole deliberate but determined nature to revolt against her tyranny, at once sa
sweet and so intolerable.
It had needed a sort of tempest shock to bring her to the
point; but there she was at last, fettered to a fixed day: there
she lay, conquered by love and bound with a vow.
Thus vanquished and restricted, she pined, like any other
chained denizen of deserts. Her captor alone could cheer her;
his society only could make amends for the lost privilege of
liberty: in his absence, she sat or wandered alone; spoke little, and ate less.
She furthered no preparations for her nuptials: Louis was
himself obliged to direct all arrangements: he was virtually
master of Fieldhead, weeks before he became so nominally:
the least presumptuous, the kindest master that ever was;
but with his lady absolute. Sb, abdicated without a word
or a struggle.  "Go to Mr Moore; ask Mr. Moore," was
her answer when applied( to for orders.  Never was wooer of




TIlE WINDING  UP.                  565
wealthy bride so thoroughly absolved from the subaltern part,
so inevitably compelled to assume a paramount character.
In all this, Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition;
but a remark she made a year afterward proved that she part
ly, also, acted on system.  " Louis," she said, " would nevel
have learned to rule, if she had not ceased to govern: the incapacity of the sovereign had developed the powers of the premier."
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as
bridemaid at the approaching nuptials; but Fortune had destined her another part.
She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended to was a
rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of
the house. This plant had received the refreshing shower:
she was now resting a minute.  Near the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone-a monkish relic; once, perhaps, the
base of a cross: she mounted it, that she might better com
emand the view. She had still the watering-pot in one hand,
with the other, her pretty dress was held lightly aside, to avoid
trickling drops: she gazed over the wall, along some lonely
fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the
sky; beyond a solitary thorn, at the head of a solitary lane
far off: she surveyed the dusk moors, where bonfires were
kindling: the summer evening was warm; the bell music
was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft; their
red flame bright: above them, in the sky whence the sun had
vanished, twinkled a silver point-the Star of Love.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening; far otherwise:
but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled
her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she
knew who had drawn near: she received the touch un
startled.
"1 am looking at Venus, mamma: see, she is beautiful.
How white her luster is, compared with the deep red of the
bonfires!"
The answer wvas a closer caress; and Caroline turned, and
looked, not into Mrs. Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark,
manly visage. - She dropped her watering-pot, and stepped
down from the pedestal.
"I have been sitting with' mamma' an hour " said the ir




5)G6                 SIHI RLEY.
truder. "I  have had a long conversation with her  Where,
meantime, have you been?"
"To Fieldhead.  Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert 
6he will neither say Yes nor No to any question put.  She
sits alone: I can not tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalan-t: if you rouse her, or scold her, she gives you a look
half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as queer and
crazed as herself.  What Louis will make of her I can not
tell: for my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I dare not
undertake her."
" Never mind them: they were cut out for each other.
Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks:
he will nmanage her, if any one can.  She tries him, however:
he has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but
you see it all ends in victory fbr him. Caroline, I have sought
-ou to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?"
"For the repeal of your terrible law; the Orders you hate
so much. You are pleased, are you not?"
" Yesterday evening at this time, I was packing some books
for a sea-voyage: they were the only possessions, except some
clothes, seeds, roots, and tools, which I felt free to take with
me to Canada. I was going to leave you."
"To leave me?  To leave one?"
Her little fingers fastened on his arm: she spoke and looked
affrilighted.
"Not now-not now.  Examine my face; yes, look at me
well: is the despair of parting legible thereon?"
She looked into an illuminated countenance, whose characters were all beaming, though the page itself was dusk: this
face, potent in the majesty of its traits, shed down on her
hope, fondness, delight.
"Will the repeal do you good; much good-immediate
good?" she inquired.
"The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I
shall not turn bankrupt; now I shall not give up business;
now I shall not leave England; now I shall be no longer
poor; now I can pay my debts; now all the cloth I have in
my warehouses will be taken off my hands, and commissionE
given me for much more: this day lays for my fortunes a
broad, firm foundation; on which, for the first time in ms
1ifc, I can securely build 




lTHE WINDING U'?                    5G7
Caroline devoured his words: she held his halnd in hers,
die drew a long breath.' You are saved! Your heavy difficulties fare lifted!"
"They are lifted: I breathe: I can act."
" At last! Oh! Providence is kind. Thanl Him, Robert.
"I do thank Providence."
" And I also, for your sake!" She looked up devoutly.
" Now, I can take more workmen; give better wages; lay
wiser and more liberal plans; do some good; be less selfish:
now, Caroline, I can have a house-a home which I can
truly call mine-and now-"
He paused; for his deep voice was checked.
"And now," he resumed-" now I can think of marriage;,oWz I can seek a wife."
This was no moment for her to speak: she did not speak.
" Will Caroline, who meekly hopes to be forgiven as she
fobrgives-will she pardon all I have made her suffer-all that
long pain I have wickedly caused her-all that sickness of
body and mind she owed to me?  Will she forget what she
knows of my poor ambition-my sordid schemes?  WTill she
let me expiate these things? Will she suffer me to prove
that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can now love faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?"
His han.d was in Caroline's still: a gentle pressure answer
ed him.
" Is Caroline mine?"
" Caroline is yours."
" I will prize her: the sense of her value is here, in my
heart; the necessity for her society is blended with my life:
not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves my
pulses, than of her happiness and well-being."
"I love you, too, Robert, and will take faithful care of
you."
"Will you take faithful care of me? —faithful care! as if
that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard,
gray stone.  But she will care for me, in her way: these
hands will be the gentle ministrants of every comfort I can
taste I know the being I seek to entwine with my own will
bring me a solace —.a charity-.-a purity-to which, of myself,
r am a stran~goe."




568                   S8 I R LEX.
Suddenly, Caroline was troubled; her lip qui.ered.
"6 What flutters my dove?" asked Moore, as she nestled to,
and then uneasily shrank from him.
"Poor mamma! I am all mamma has: must I leave
her?"
" Do you know, I thought of that difficulty: I and' mamma;
have discussed it."
" Tell me what you wish-what you would like-and I
will consider if it is possible to consent; but I can not desert
her, even for you: I can not break her heart, even for your
sake."
" She was faithful when I was false-was she not?  I
never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly."
c" What must I do?  Any thing but leave her."
"' At my wish you never shall leave her."
"She may live very near us?"
"With us-only she will have her own rooms and servant:
for this she stipulates herself."
" You know she has an income, that, with her habits, makes
her quite independent i"
"' She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me
of somebody else."
"She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip."
" I know her, Cary: but if —instead of being the personification of reserve and discretion-she were something quite
opposite, I should not fear her."
" Yet she will be your mother-in-law!" The speaker gave
an arch little nod: Moore smiled.
" Louis and I are not of the order of men who fear their
mothers-in-law, Cary: our foes never have been, nor will be,
those of our own household.  I doubt not, my mother-in-lag
will make much of me."
" That she will-in her quiet way, you know.  She is not
demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, you
must not fancy her displeased-it is only a manner she has.
Be sure to lot me interpret for her, whenever she puzzles
vou: always believe my account of the matter, Robert."
" Oh, implicitly! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I will
suit-on ne peut mieux.  IHortense, you know, is exquisitely
susceptible —in our French sense of the word-a-nd not, per




T iH    WINDING U P.                 69
haps, always reasonable in her requirements, yet — dear
honest girl-I never painfully Nwounded her feelings, or hlad a
serious quarrel with her, in my life."
"No: you are most generously considerate-indeed, most
tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be considerate with
mamma.  You are a gentleman all through, Robert, to the
bone-and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own
fireside."
" An eulogium I like: it is very sweet.  I arn well pleased
my Caroline should view me in this light."
" Mamma just thinks of you as I do."
" Not quite, I hope?"
" She does not want to marry you-don't be vain; but she
said to me the other day,' My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing
manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who
4ombine politeness with an air of sincerity.'"
"'Mamma' is rather a misanthropist, is she not?  Not
the best opinion of the sterner sex?"
"She forbears to judge them as a whole, but she has her
exceptions whom she admires.  Louis and Mr. Hall, and, of
late -yourself. She did not like you once: I knew that, be,
cause she would never speak of you. But, Robert-"
" Well, what now    What is the new thought?"
"You have not seen my uncle yet i"
"I have:'mamma' called him into the room.  He con
sents conditionally: if I prove that I can keep a wife, I may
have her; and I can keep her better than he thinks —better
than I choose to boast."
" If you get rich, you will do good with your money, Robert?"
"I woill do good; you shall tell me how: indeed, I have
some schemes of my own, which you and I will talk about orn
our own hearth one day.  I have seen the necessity of doing
good: I have learned the downright folly of being selfish.
Caroline, I foresee what I will now foretell.  This war must
ere long draw to a close.: Trade is likely to prosper for some
years to come: there may be a brief misunderstanding between
England and America, but that will not last.  What would
you think if, one day-perhaps ere another ten years elapseLouis and I divide Briarfield parish betweoen us?  Louis, at
any rate, is certain of power and property: he will not bur)
B A;




570                    S HIRLEY
his talents: he is a benevolent fellow, and has besid(es an in
tellect of his own of no trifling caliber.  His mind is slow but
strong: it must work: it may work d-liberately, but it wil
work well.  He will be made magistrate of the district-Shi)
ley says he shall: she would proceed impetuously and prematurely to obtain fbr him this dignity, if he would let her, but
he will not; as usual, he will be in rno haste: ere he has been
master of Fieldhead a year, all the district will feel his quiet
influence, and acknowledge his unassuming superiority: a
magistrate is wanted-they will, in time, invest him with the
office voluntarily and unreluctantly.  Every body admires his
future wife; and every body will, in time, like him: he is of
the'pate' generally approved,'bon comme le pain' —daily
bread for the most fastidious; good for the infant and the
aged, nourishing for the poor, wholesome for the rich.  Shirley, in spite of her whims and oddities, her dodges and delays,
has an infatuated fondness for him: she will one day see him
as universally beloved as even she could wish: he will also be
universally esteemed, considered, consulted, depended on-too
much so: his advice will be always judicious, his help always
good-natured-ere long, both will be in inconvenient request:
he will have to impose restrictions. As for me, if I succeed
as I intend to do, my success will add to his and Shirley's income: I can double the value of their mill-property: I can
line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages, and rows of'
cottage-gardens-"
" Robert! And root up the copse'"
"The copse shall be fire-wood ere five years elapse: the
beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green
natural terrace shall be a paved street: there shall be cottages
in the dark ravine, and cottages on the lonely slopes: the rough
pebbled track shall be an even, firm, broad, black, sooty road,
bedded with the cinders from my mill; and my mill, Caro
line-my mill shall fill its present yard."
"Horrible! You will change our blue hill-country air into
the Stilbro' smoke atmosphere."
"I will pour the waters of Pactolus through the valley of
Briarfield."
"I like the beck a thousand times better."
"I will got an act for inclosing Nunnely Common, and
oarcelingl it out Into fiarms."




THE WINDING  UP.                    571
"Stllbro' Moor, however, defies you, thank Heaven' WVhat
can you grow  in Bilberry Moss!  What will flourish oil
Rushedge 2'
"Caroline, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed shall
come to Hollow's Mill from far and near; and Joe Scott shall
give them  work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let them  a
tenement, and Mrs. Gill shall mete them a portion till the
first pay-day."
She smiled up in his face.
" Such a Sunday-school as you will have, Cary! such collections as you will get! such a day-school as you, and Shirley, and Miss Ainley will have to managre between you! The
mill shall find salaries for a master and mistress, and the
squire or the clothier shall give a treat once a quarter."
She mutely offered a kiss, an offer taken unfair advantage
of, to the extortion of about a hundred kisses.
"Extravagant day-dreams 1" said Moore, with a sigh and
smile, " yet perhaps we may realize some of them.  Mean,
time, the dew is falling: Mrs. Moore, I shall take you in."
It is August: the bells clash out again, not only through
Yorkshire but through England: from Spain, the voice of a
trumpet has sounded long: it now waxes louder and louder:
it proclaims Salamanca won.  This night is Briarfield to bf
illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dine togeth
er; the Hollow's Mill work-people will be assembled Ibr t
like festal purpose; the schools have a grand treat.  Thi,
morning there were two marriages solemnized in Briarfielc
church-Louis Gerard Moore, Esq., late of Antwerp, to Shir
ley, daughter of the late Charles Cave Keeldar, Esq., of Field
head: R~obert Gerard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Mill, to Car.
cline, niece of the Rlev. Mathewson Helston, M.A., rector ol
Briarfield.
The ceremony, in the first instance, was performed by Mir
Helstone; Hiram  Yorke, E.s., of Briarmains, giving the
bride away.  In the second instance, Mr. Hall, vicar of Nun
nely, officiated.  Among the bridal train, the two most no.
ticcable personages were the youthful bridesmen, Henry Symp.
son and Martin Yorke.
I suppose Robert Moore's prophecies were, partially at
least, fhlfoilled. The other day I passed up the Hollow, whitb




572                    S ItIRL E Y.
tradition says was Gnce green, and lone, and wild; and there
I saw the manufacturer's day-dreams embodied in substantial
stone, and brick, and ashes-the cinder-black highway, the
cottages, and the cottage gardens; there I saw a mighty
mill, and a chimney, ambitious as the tower of Babel. I told
rmy old housekeeper when I came home where I had been.
"Ay!" said she; "this world has queer changes.  I can
remember the old mill being built-the very first it was in
all the district; and then, I canll remember it being pulled
clown, and going with my lake-lasses (companions) to see the
foundation-stone of the new one laid: the two Mr. Moores
made a great stir about it; they were there, and a deal of
fine folk beside, and both their ladies; very bonnie and grand
they looked; but Mrs. Louis was the grandest, she always
wore such handsome dresses: M[rs, Robert was quieter-like.
Mrs. Louis smiled when she talked: she had a real happy,
glad, good-natured look; but she had een that pierced a body
through: there is no such ladies nowadays."
" What was the Hollow like then, Martha?"
" Different to what it is now; but I can tell of it clean
different again: when there was neither mill, nor cot, nor hall,
except Fieldhead, within two miles of it.  I can tell, one
summer evening, fifty years syne, my mother coming running
in just at the edge of dark, almost fleyed out of her wits, say
ing, she had seen a fairish (fairy) in Fieldhead Hollow; and
that was the last fairish that ever was seen on this country
side (though they've been heard within these forty years). A
lonesome spot it was —and a bonnie spot-full of oak-trees
and nut-trees.  It is altered now."
The story is told.  I think I now see the judicious reader
putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be
an insult to his sagacity to offer directions.  - only say. God
speed him in the quest!
THE END.