Shirley might be brilliant, and probably happy likewise, but no one is independent of 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 Wynne of Walden Hall, yet, it appeared, she found none amongst them very genial: she fraternized with none of them, to use her own words. If she had had the to be really Shirley Keeldar, Esq., lord of the of Briarfield, there was not a single fair one in this and the two neighbouring 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, responding, "My dear, do not allow that habit of to yourself as a gentleman to be confirmed. It is a strange one. Those who do not know you, hearing you speak thus, would think you masculine manners."
Shirley never laughed at her former governess; even the little formalities and harmless 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 of quiet worth. Therefore she took her in silence. She stood quietly182 near the window, looking at the grand on her lawn watching a bird on one of its lower . Presently she began to chirrup to the bird; soon her chirrup grew clearer; ere long she was whistling; the whistle struck into a , and very sweetly and it was executed.
"My dear!" expostulated Mrs. Pryor.
"Was I whistling?" said Shirley. "I forgot. I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had resolved to take care not to whistle before you."
"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."
"Who 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 favourites, Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fine old beaus, better than any of the stupid young ones."
Mrs. Pryor was silent.
"You do not like Mr. Helstone, ma'am?"
"My dear, Mr. Helstone's office secures him from criticism."
"You generally 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 Helstone, 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 , and cannot 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, traversing183 the extensive and sweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew her 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 , for the heath reminded her of . She had seen moors when she was travelling 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 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 , which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected would into blinding lightning."
"Did it thunder?"
"It muttered distant , but the storm did not break till evening, after we had reached our inn—that inn being an 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 mist, and when the rain fell in whitening sheets, suddenly they were from the ; they were washed from the world."
"I have seen such storms in hilly districts in Yorkshire; and at their , while the sky was all , the earth all flood, I have remembered the ."
"It is singularly reviving after such hurricanes to feel calm return, and from the opening clouds to receive a gleam, softly testifying that the sun is not ."
"Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look down at Nunnely dale and wood."
They both halted on the green brow of the common. They looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment; on meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups. To-day all this young verdure184 smiled clear in sunlight; emerald and gleams played over it. On Nunnwood—the sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once all silvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather—slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and like mother-of-pearl; silvery , soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven's foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and .
"Our England is a bonny island," said Shirley, "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 of Briarfield Church. I drew my first breath in the old black hall behind us."
Hereupon Caroline presented her hand, which was accordingly 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."
"Were you ever there?"
"Many a time."
"In the heart of it?"
"Yes."
"What is it like?"
"It is like an encampment of forest sons 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 Hood's haunts?"
"Yes, and there are of him still existing. To into Nunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back into the dim days of old. Can you see a break in the forest, about the centre?"
"Yes, distinctly."
"That break is a dell—a deep, hollow cup, lined with turf as green and short as the sod of this common. The very oldest of the trees, gnarled oaks, crowd about185 the of this dell. In the bottom lie the ruins of a nunnery."
"We will go—you and I alone, Caroline—to that wood, early some fine summer morning, and spend a long day there. We 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 , 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 ; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden , carpeted with strange , some yellow as if , 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, , clustered in contrast; and ash trees stately as Saul, isolated; and wood-giants clad in bright of . Miss Keeldar, I could guide you."
"You would be dull with me alone?"
"I should not. I think we should suit; and what third person is there whose presence would not spoil our pleasure?"
"Indeed, I know of none about our own ages—no lady at least; and as to gentlemen——"
"An excursion becomes quite a different thing when there are gentlemen of the party," interrupted Caroline.
"I agree with you—quite a different thing to what we were proposing."
"We were going simply to see the old trees, the old ruins; to pass a day in old times, surrounded by olden silence, and above all by quietude."
"You are right; and the presence of gentlemen the last charm, I think. If they are of the wrong sort, like your Malones, and your young Sykes, and Wynnes, takes the place of . If they are of the right sort, there is still a change; I can hardly tell what change—one easy to feel, difficult to describe."
"We forget Nature, imprimis."
"And then Nature forgets us, covers her vast calm brow with a dim veil, her face, and withdraws the peaceful186 joy with which, if we had been content to worship her only, she would have filled our hearts."
"What does she give us instead?"
"More and more anxiety; an excitement that steals the hours away fast, and a trouble that their course."
"Our power of being happy lies a good deal in ourselves, I believe," remarked Caroline . "I have gone to Nunnwood with a large party—all the curates and some other of these parts, together with ladies—and I found the affair insufferably tedious and absurd; and I have gone quite alone, or accompanied but by Fanny, who sat in the woodman's hut and sewed, or talked to the goodwife, while I roamed about and made , or read; and I have enjoyed much happiness of a quiet kind all day long. But that was when I was young—two years ago."
"Did you ever go with your cousin, Robert Moore?"
"Yes; once."
"What sort of a companion is he on these occasions?"
"A cousin, you know, is different to a stranger."
"I am aware of that; but cousins, if they are stupid, are still more insupportable than strangers, because you cannot so easily keep them at a distance. But your cousin is not stupid?"
"No; but——"
"Well?"
"If the company of fools irritates, as you say, the society of clever men leaves its own pain also. Where the goodness or talent of your friend is beyond and above all doubt, your own to be his associate often becomes a matter of question."
"Oh! there I cannot 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 them—of gentlemen, I mean—though that is saying a great deal. Where they are good, they are very good, I believe. Your uncle, by-the-bye, is not a bad of the elderly gentleman. I am always glad to see his brown, keen, sensible old face, either in my own house or any other. Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now, speak the truth."
"He has brought me up from childhood, I doubt not, as he would have brought up his own daughter, if he had had one; and that is kindness. But I am not187 fond of him. I would rather be out of his presence than in it."
"Strange, when he has the art of making himself so agreeable."
"Yes, in company; but he is stern and silent at home. As he puts away his and shovel-hat in the rectory hall, so he locks his liveliness in his book-case and study-desk: the knitted brow and brief word for the fireside; the smile, the jest, the sally for society."
"Is 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 than truly just—if you can understand such superfine distinctions."
"Oh yes! Good-nature implies indulgence, which he has not; , 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."
"I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my uncle in their domestic relations; whether it is necessary to be new and to them in order to seem agreeable or estimable in their eyes; and whether it is impossible to their natures to retain a constant interest and affection for those they see every day."
"I don't know. I can't clear up your doubts. I ponder over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to tell you a secret, if I were convinced that they are necessarily and universally different from us—fickle, soon , unsympathizing—I would never marry. I should not like to find out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary of me, and that whatever effort I might make to please would hereafter be worse than useless, since it was in its nature to change and become indifferent. That discovery once made, what should I long for? To go away, to remove from a presence where my society gave no pleasure."
"But you could not if you were married."
"No, I could not. There it is. I could never be my own mistress more. A terrible thought! It me! Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore—an burden, a ceaseless bore! Now, when I feel my company , I can comfortably fold my188 independence round me like a , and drop my pride like a veil, and withdraw to . If married, that could not be."
"I wonder we don't all make up our minds to remain single," said Caroline. "We should if we listened to the wisdom of experience. My uncle always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe whenever he hears of a man being married he invariably regards him as a fool, or, at any rate, as doing a foolish thing."
"But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle. Surely not. I hope not."
She paused and .
"I suppose we each find an exception in the one we love, till we are married," suggested Caroline.
"I suppose so. And this exception we believe to be of materials. We fancy it like ourselves; we imagine a sense of harmony. We think his voice gives the softest, truest promise of a heart that will never harden against us; we read in his eyes that faithful feeling—affection. I don't think we should trust to what they call passion at all, Caroline. I believe it is a fire of dry sticks, blazing up and vanishing. But we watch him, and see him kind to animals, to little children, to poor people. He is kind to us likewise, good, considerate. He does not flatter women, but he is patient with them, and he seems to be easy in their presence, and to find their company genial. He likes them not only for vain and selfish reasons, but as we like him—because we like him. Then we observe that he is just, that he always speaks the truth, that he is . We feel joy and peace when he comes into a room; we feel sadness and trouble when he leaves it. We know that this man has been a kind son, that he is a kind brother. Will any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kind husband?"
"My uncle would affirm it unhesitatingly. 'He will be sick of you in a month,' he would say."
"Mrs. Pryor would seriously intimate the same."
"Mrs. Yorke and Miss Mann would darkly suggest ditto."
"If they are true , it is good never to fall in love."
"Very good, if you can avoid it."
"I choose to doubt their truth."
"I am afraid that proves you are already caught."
"Not I. But if I were, do you know what soothsayers I would consult?"
189"Let me hear."
"Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young: the little Irish beggar that comes barefoot to my door; the mouse that steals out of the cranny in the wainscot; the bird that in frost and snow pecks at my window for a ; the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee."
"Did you ever see any one who was kind to such things?"
"Did you ever see any one whom such things seemed to follow, like, rely on?"
"We have a black cat and an old dog at the rectory. I know somebody to whose knee that black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his and wags his tail, and affectionately when somebody passes."
"And what does that somebody do?"
"He quietly strokes the cat, and lets her sit while he conveniently can; and when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her softly down, and never flings her from him roughly. He always whistles to the dog and gives him a ."
"Does he? It is not Robert?"
"But it is Robert."
"Handsome fellow!" said Shirley, with enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled.
"Is he not handsome? Has he not fine eyes and well-cut features, and a clear, princely forehead?"
"He has all that, Caroline. Bless him! he is both and good."
"I was sure you would see that he was. When I first looked at your face I knew you would."
"I was well inclined to him before I saw him. I liked him when I did see him. I admire him now. There is charm in beauty for itself, Caroline; when it is blent with goodness, there is a powerful charm."
"When mind is added, Shirley?"
"Who can resist it?"
"Remember my uncle, Mesdames Pryor, Yorke, and Mann."
"Remember the of the frogs of Egypt. He is a noble being. I tell you when they are good they are the lords of the creation—they are the sons of God. Moulded in their Maker's image, the minutest spark of His spirit lifts them almost above mortality. Indisputably, a great, good, handsome man is the first of created things."
190"Above us?"
"I would scorn to contend for empire with him—I would scorn it. Shall my left hand dispute for precedence with my right? Shall my heart quarrel with my pulse? Shall my be jealous of the blood which fills them?"
"Men and women, husbands and wives, quarrel horribly, Shirley."
"Poor things! Poor, fallen, things! God made them for another lot, for other feelings."
"But are we men's equals, or are we not?"
"Nothing ever charms me more than when I meet my superior—one who makes me sincerely feel that he is my superior."
"Did you ever meet him?"
"I should be glad to see him any day. The higher above me, so much the better. It degrades to stoop; it is glorious to look up. What me is, that when I try to , I am baffled; when religiously inclined, there are but false gods to adore. I to be a pagan."
"Miss Keeldar, will you come in? We are here at the rectory 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, you and I will suit. I have never in my whole life been able to talk to a young lady as I have talked to you this morning. Kiss me—and good-bye."
Mrs. Pryor seemed as well disposed to cultivate Caroline's acquaintance as Shirley. She, who went nowhere else, called on an early day at the rectory. She came in the afternoon, when the rector happened to be out. It was rather a close day; the heat of the weather had flushed her, and she seemed fluttered too by the circumstance of entering a strange house, for it appeared her habits were most retiring and . When Miss Helstone went to her in the dining-room she found her seated on the sofa, trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief, and seeming to contend with a nervous discomposure that threatened to become .
Caroline somewhat at this unusual want of self-command in a lady of her years, and also at the lack of real strength in one who appeared almost robust—for Mrs. Pryor hastened to the of her walk, the191 heat of the sun, etc., as reasons for her temporary indisposition; and still as, with more hurry than
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