Shirley (45 page)

"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 Royd Lane. I shall be sorry also to deprive you of Mr. Hall's sincere friendly homily, with all its racy Yorkshireisms; but here I must stay. The gray church and grayer tombs look divine with this

crimson 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 at sea, for travellers in deserts, for 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! Milton's Eve! I repeat. No, by the pure Mother of God, she is not! Cary, we are alone; we may speak what we think. Milton was great; but was he good? His brain was right; how was

his heart? He saw heaven; he looked down on hell. He saw Satan, and Sin his daughter, and Death their

horrible offspring. Angels serried before him their battalions; the long lines of adamantine shields flashed back on his blind eyeballs the unutterable splendour of heaven. Devils gathered their legions

in his sight; their dim, discrowned, and tarnished armies passed rank and file 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 for 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?"

"I say, there were giants on the earth in those days—giants that strove to scale heaven. The first woman's breast that heaved with life on this world yielded the daring which could contend 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, could 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 consort-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 you. You have not yet told me what

you saw kneeling on those hills."

"I saw—I now see—a woman-Titan. Her robe of blue air spreads to the outskirts of the heath, where yonder flock is grazing; a veil 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 cannot picture. They are clear, they are deep as lakes, they are lifted and full of worship, they tremble with the softness of love and

the lustre 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' Moor; her mighty hands are

joined beneath it. So kneeling, face to face she speaks with 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 fell in paradise, but all

that is glorious on earth shines there still. She is taking me to her bosom, and showing me her heart.

Hush, Caroline! You will see her and feel as I do, if we are both silent."

"I will humour your whim; but you will begin talking again ere ten 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 deep-burning 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 Shirley's visions, but a gentle human form—the form she ascribed to her own mother, unknown, unloved, but not unlonged

for.

"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 longing of her childhood filled her soul again. The desire which many a night had kept her awake in her crib, and which fear of its fallacy had of late years almost extinguished, relit suddenly,

and glowed warm in her 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 from 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 lungs. He had probably just awaked 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-evening, 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 smile of pleasure. He

was a rough-headed, hard-featured personage, not 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. Before gentlemen—such as Moore or Helstone, for instance

—William was often a little dogged; with proud or insolent ladies, too, he was quite unmanageable,

sometimes very resentful; but he was most sensible of, most tractable to, good-humour 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 neighbourhood, he continued to harbour a grudge

against his austerity. Latterly he had often worked 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 artist-fibres 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 speaking, William, when you came out?" asked Shirley.

"A gentleman ye set a deal of store on, Miss Shirley—Mr. Donne."

"You look knowing, William. How did you find out my regard for Mr. Donne?"

"Ay, Miss Shirley, there's a gleg light i' your een sometimes 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 magnifying their office. It is a pity but their office could magnify them; but it does nought o' t' soart. I 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 everything handsome about you. Sometimes you look as if you were almost

too proud to take your wages. When you were out of work, you were too proud to get anything on

credit. But for your children, I believe you would rather have starved than gone to the shops without

money; and when I 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 am
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 nought 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?"

"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 theirseln;
we
are almost too proud to let anybody 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 themseln 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 varry well off. Since I got into t' gardening line, wi' Mr. Yorke's help, and since Mr. Hall (another o' t' raight sort) helped my wife to set up a bit of a shop, I've nought to complain of.

My family has plenty to eat and plenty to wear. My pride makes me find means to have an odd pound

now and then against rainy days; for I think I'd die afore I'd come to t' parish; and me and mine is content. But t' neighbours 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 cannot be satisfied or settled folk. The country's not in a safe condition—I'll say so mich!"

"But what can be done? What more can I do, for instance?"

"Do? Ye can do not 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, unfeeling heart, yond' Moore."

"But," interposed Shirley, "supposing Moore was driven from the country, and his mill razed to the ground, would people have more work?"