Shirley (25 page)

eye has failed to greet mine."

That Sunday evening, Mr. Malone coming, as usual, to pass it with his rector, Caroline withdrew after tea to her chamber. Fanny, knowing her habits, had lit her a cheerful little fire, as the weather was so gusty and chill. Closeted there, silent and solitary, what could she do but think? She noiselessly paced to and fro the carpeted floor, her head drooped, her hands folded. It was irksome to sit; the current of reflection ran rapidly through her mind; to-night she was mutely excited.

Mute was the room, mute the house. The double door of the study muffled the voices of the gentlemen. The servants were quiet in the kitchen, engaged with books their young mistress had lent

them—books which she had told them were "fit for Sunday reading." And she herself had another of the same sort open on the table, but she could not read it. Its theology was incomprehensible to her,

and her own mind was too busy, teeming, wandering, to listen to the language of another mind.

Then, too, her imagination was full of pictures—images of Moore, scenes where he and she had been together; winter fireside sketches; a glowing landscape of a hot summer afternoon passed with

him in the bosom of Nunnely Wood; divine vignettes of mild spring or mellow autumn moments, when she had sat at his side 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 morning's pleasure

to collect in a little basket, and cover with green leaves and fresh blossoms, and her afternoon's delight to administer to Moore, berry by berry, and nut by nut, like a bird feeding its fledgling.

Robert's features and form were with her; the sound of his voice was quite distinct in her ear; his

few caresses seemed renewed. But these joys, being hollow, were, ere long, crushed in. The pictures

faded, the voice failed, the visionary clasp melted chill from her hand, and where the warm seal of lips had made impress on her forehead, it felt now as if a sleety rain-drop had fallen. She returned from an enchanted region to the real world: for Nunnely Wood in June she saw her narrow chamber;

for the songs of birds in alleys she heard the rain on her casement; for the sigh of the south wind came the sob of the mournful east; and for Moore's manly companionship she had the thin illusion of

her own dim shadow on the wall. Turning from the pale phantom which reflected herself in its outline, and her reverie in the drooped attitude of its dim head and colourless tresses, she sat down—

inaction would suit the frame of mind into which she was 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 before me. How am I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the interval of time which spreads

between me and the grave?"

She reflected.

"I shall not be married, it appears," she continued. "I suppose, as Robert does not care for me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had reckoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy my existence. I considered, somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing up to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any other; but now I perceive plainly I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an

old maid. I shall live to see Robert married to some one else, some rich lady. I shall never marry.

What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the world?"

She mused again.

"Ah! I see," she pursued presently; "that is the question which 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 right in some measure, and a very convenient doctrine for the people who hold it; but I perceive that certain sets of human beings are very apt to maintain that other sets should give up their lives to them and their service, and then they requite them by praise; they call them devoted and virtuous. Is this enough? Is it to live? Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want,

craving, in that existence which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow

it on? I suspect there is. Does virtue lie in abnegation of self? I do not believe it. Undue humility makes tyranny; weak concession creates selfishness. The Romish religion especially teaches

renunciation of self, submission to others, and nowhere are found so many grasping tyrants as in the

ranks of the Romish priesthood. Each human being has his share of rights. I 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 thoughts these that surge in my mind. Are they right thoughts? I am not certain.

"Well, life is short at the best. Seventy years, they say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh; and every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne—the grave, the little chink in the

surface of this great globe, the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe deposits the seed

he has shaken from the ripe stem; and there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body. The soul meantime wings its long

flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing down through the

burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the Christian's triple Godhead—the sovereign Father, the mediating Son, the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible, to describe what baffles description. The soul's real hereafter who shall guess?"

Her fire was decayed to its last cinder; Malone had departed; and now the study bell rang for prayers.

The next day Caroline had to spend altogether alone, her uncle being gone to dine with his friend

Dr. Boultby, vicar of Whinbury. The whole time she was talking inwardly in the same strain—looking

forwards, asking what she was to do with life. Fanny, as she passed in and out of the room occasionally, intent on housemaid errands, perceived that her young mistress sat very still. She was

always in the same place, always bent industriously over a piece of work. She did not lift her head to

speak to Fanny, as her custom was; and when the latter remarked that the day was fine, and she ought

to take a walk, she only said, "It is cold."

"You are very diligent at that sewing, Miss Caroline," continued the girl, approaching her little table.

"I am tired of it, Fanny."

"Then why do you go on with it? Put it down. Read, or do something to amuse you."

"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 upstairs and dress yourself smart, and go and take tea, in a

friendly way, with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley. I am certain either of those ladies would be delighted to

see you."

"But their houses are dismal: they are both old maids. I am certain old maids are a very unhappy

race."

"Not they, miss. They can't be unhappy; they take such care of themselves. They are all selfish."

"Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny. She is always doing good. How devotedly kind she was to her

step-mother as long as the old lady lived; and now when she is quite alone in the world, without brother or sister, or any one to care for her, 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 woman. 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 young, and merry! And I will certainly call to see Miss Mann too. She may not be amiable, but what has made her unamiable? What

has life been to her?"

Fanny helped Miss Helstone to put away her work, and afterwards assisted her to dress.

"
You
'll not be an old maid, Miss Caroline," she said, as she tied the sash of her brown silk frock, having previously smoothed her soft, full, and shining curls; "there are no signs of an old maid about you."

Caroline looked at the little mirror before her, and she thought there were some signs. She could

see that she was altered within the last month; that the hues of her complexion 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 fresh as she used to be. She distantly hinted this to Fanny, from whom she got no direct answer, only a remark that people did vary in their looks, but that at her age a little falling 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 warm shawls and

handkerchiefs, till Caroline, nearly smothered with the weight, was fain to resist further additions.

She paid her visits—first to Miss Mann, for this was the most difficult point. Miss Mann was certainly not quite a lovable person. Till now, Caroline had always unhesitatingly declared she disliked her, and more than once she had joined her cousin Robert in laughing at some of her peculiarities. Moore was not habitually given to sarcasm, especially on anything humbler or weaker

than himself; but he had once or twice happened to be in the room when Miss Mann had made a call

on his sister, and after listening to her conversation and viewing her features for a time, he had gone

out into the garden where his little cousin was tending some of his favourite flowers, and while standing near and watching her he had amused himself with comparing fair youth, delicate and attractive, with shrivelled 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 him, looking up from the luxuriant creeper she was 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."

"You an old maid!" he had replied. "A piquant notion suggested by lips of that tint and form. I can fancy you, though, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunk, but still with that straight nose, white forehead, and those soft eyes. I suppose, too, you will keep your voice, which has another 'timbre'

than that hard, deep organ of Miss Mann's. Courage, Cary! Even at fifty you will not be repulsive."

"Miss Mann did not make herself, or tune her voice, Robert."

"Nature made her in 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-moss."

Ushered into Miss Mann's little parlour, Caroline found her, as she always found her, surrounded

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 on her carpet,

fresh flowers in 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 favourite

work, as it required the least exertion. She scarcely rose as Caroline entered. To avoid excitement was

one of Miss Mann'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 knock at the door startled her, and undid her day's work. She was scarcely pleased, therefore, to see Miss Helstone.

She received her with reserve, bade her be seated with austerity, and when she got her placed opposite, she fixed her with her eye.

This was no ordinary doom—to be fixed with Miss Mann's eye. Robert Moore had undergone it once, and had never forgotten the circumstance.

He considered it quite equal to anything Medusa could do. He professed to doubt whether, since that

infliction, his flesh had been quite what it was before—whether there was not something stony in its

texture. The gaze had had such an effect on him as to drive him promptly from the apartment and house; it had even sent him straightway up to the rectory, where he had appeared in Caroline's presence with a very queer face, and amazed her by demanding a cousinly salute on the spot, to rectify a damage that had been done him.

Certainly Miss Mann had a formidable eye for one of the softer sex. It was prominent, and showed

a great deal of the white, and looked as steadily, as unwinkingly, at you as if it were a steel ball soldered in her head; and when, while looking, she began to talk in an indescribably dry, monotonous

tone—a tone without vibration or inflection—you felt as if a graven image of some bad spirit were

addressing you. But it was all a figment of fancy, a matter of surface. Miss Mann's goblin grimness

scarcely went deeper than the angel sweetness of hundreds of beauties. She was a perfectly honest, conscientious woman, who had performed duties in her day from whose severe anguish many a

human Peri, gazelle-eyed, silken-tressed, and silver-tongued, would have shrunk appalled. She had passed alone through protracted scenes of suffering, exercised rigid self-denial, made large

sacrifices of time, money, health for those who had repaid her only by ingratitude, and now her main

—almost her sole—fault was that she was censorious.

Censorious she certainly was. Caroline had not sat five minutes ere her hostess, still keeping her under the spell of that dread and Gorgon gaze, began flaying alive certain of the families in the neighbourhood. She went to work at this business in a singularly cool, deliberate manner, like some