Shirley (34 page)

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—you eat nothing. Laugh and be cheerful, and stay at home."

Miss Helstone shook her head and sighed. She felt what difficulty she would have to persuade any

one to assist or sanction her in making that change in her life which she believed desirable. Might she

only follow her own judgment, she thought she 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. Many that want food and clothing have cheerier lives

and brighter prospects than she had; many, harassed by poverty, are in a strait less afflictive.

"Now, is your mind quieted?" inquired Shirley. "Will you consent to stay at home?"

"I shall not leave it against the approbation of my friends," was the reply; "but I think in time they will be obliged to think as I do."

During this conversation Mrs. Pryor looked far from easy. Her extreme habitual reserve would rarely permit her to talk freely or to interrogate others closely. She could think a multitude of questions she never ventured to put, give advice in her mind which her tongue never delivered. Had

she been alone with Caroline, she might possibly have said something to the point: Miss 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 indirect 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 restlessly glancing at her. Shirley resumed: "Having destroyed your plan," she said, "which I hope I have done, I shall construct a new one of my own. Every summer I make an excursion. This

season I propose spending two months either at the Scotch 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 anybody else; but who is not like me in that respect? 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? 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.—Mrs. Pryor, I call you to witness. Her face

is all sunshine at the bare mention of it."

"I should like it much," returned Caroline, to whom, indeed, the notion of such a tour was not only pleasant, but gloriously reviving. Shirley rubbed her hands.

"Come; I can bestow a benefit," she exclaimed. "I can do a good deed with my cash. My thousand a year is not merely a matter of dirty bank-notes and jaundiced guineas (let me speak respectfully of both, though, for I adore them), but, it may be, health to the drooping, strength to the weak, consolation to the sad. I was determined to make something of it better than a fine old house to live in, than 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. We will see seals in Suderoe, and, doubtless, mermaids in Stromoe.—

Caroline is laughing, Mrs. Pryor.
I
made her laugh;
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 reappearing wreaths of foam, whiter than lilies. I shall delight to pass the shores

of those lone rock-islets where the sea-birds live and breed unmolested. We shall be on the track of

the old Scandinavians—of the Norsemen. We shall almost see the shores of Norway. This is a very

vague delight that I feel, communicated by your proposal, but it
is
a delight."

"Will you think of Fitful Head now when you lie awake at night, of gulls shrieking round it, and

waves tumbling in upon it, rather than of the graves under the rectory back-kitchen?"

"I will try; and instead of musing about remnants of shrouds, and fragments of coffins, and human

bones and mould, I will fancy seals lying in the sunshine on solitary shores, where neither fisherman

nor hunter ever come; of rock crevices full of pearly eggs bedded in seaweed; of unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks."

"And what will become of that inexpressible weight you said you had on your mind?"

"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. Something is to rise white on the surface of the sea, over which that

moon mounts silent and hangs glorious. The object glitters and sinks. It rises again. I think I hear it

cry with an articulate voice; I call you up from the cabin; I show you an image, fair as alabaster, emerging from the dim wave. We both see the long hair, the lifted and foam-white arm, the oval mirror brilliant as a star. It glides nearer; a human face is plainly visible—a face in the style of yours

—whose straight, pure (excuse the word, it is 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 beckons. Were we men, we should spring at the sign—the cold billow would be dared for the sake of

the colder enchantress; being women, we stand safe, though not dreadless. She comprehends our unmoved gaze; she feels herself powerless; anger crosses her front; she cannot charm, but she will

appal 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?"

"We are aware that mermaids do not exist; why speak of them as if they did? How can you find interest in speaking of a nonentity?"

"I don't know," said Shirley.

"My dear, I think there is an arrival. I heard a step in the lane while you were talking; and is not that the garden-gate which creaks?"

Shirley stepped to the window.

"Yes, there is 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 her eye. She raised her

hand to her chin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she waited.

The servant announced Mr. Moore, and Shirley turned round when Mr. Moore appeared at the door.

His figure seemed very tall as he entered, and stood in contrast with the three ladies, none of whom

could boast a stature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he had been known to

look for the past twelve months. A sort of renewed youth glowed in his eye and colour, and an invigorated hope and settled purpose sustained his bearing. Firmness his countenance still indicated,

but not austerity. It looked as cheerful as it was earnest.

"I am just returned from Stilbro'," 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," said he; "my foreign habits are leaving me one by one."

And now he paid his respects to Mrs. Pryor, and paid them well, with a grave modesty that became

his age compared with hers. Then he looked at Caroline—not, however, for the first time: his glance

had fallen upon her before. He bent towards her as she sat, gave her his hand, and asked her how she

was. The light from the window did not fall upon Miss Helstone; her back was turned towards it. A

quiet though rather low reply, a still demeanour, 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. He had placed himself well. His neighbour, 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
seeming
but
real
mastery of the feelings which had started into insurrection at the first announcement of his name.

He addressed his conversation to Miss 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 require—half a dozen

will suffice. I don't intend to be swamped by redcoats. They are needed for appearance rather than anything else. My main reliance is on my own civilians."

"And on their captain," interposed Shirley.

"What, Captain Keeldar?" inquired Moore, slightly smiling, and not lifting his eyes. The tone of raillery in which he said this was very respectful and suppressed.

"No," returned Shirley, answering the smile; "Captain Gérard 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 pusillanimity 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 seemed by no means off

duty. Mrs. Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the range of his glance, but the two

younger ladies had the full benefit thereof.

Miss 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 panelling behind. Shirley's clear cheek was tinted yet with the

colour 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, 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