Shirley (55 page)

neighbourhood—the Armitages, the Birtwhistles, the Sykeses. 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 anything better. This stagnant state of things makes them decline in health. They are never well, and their minds and views shrink to wondrous 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 manœuvres—they order them to stay at home. What do they expect them to do at home? If you 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 faculties for anything 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 very weary? And when there came no relief to their

weariness, but only reproaches at its slightest manifestation, would not their weariness ferment it time to frenzy? Lucretia, spinning at midnight in the midst of her maidens, and Solomon's virtuous woman

are often quoted as patterns of what 'the sex,' as they say, ought to be. I don't know. Lucretia, I 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 amongst 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.m.; 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.
That
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 honour 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 called 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 fading

around you, dropping off in consumption or decline; or, what is worse, degenerating to sour old maids—envious, back-biting, 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! cannot you alter these things? Perhaps

not all at once; but consider the matter well when it is brought before you, receive it as a theme worthy of thought; do not dismiss it with an idle jest or an unmanly insult. You would wish to be proud of your daughters, and not to blush for them; then seek for them an interest and an occupation

which shall raise them above the flirt, the manœuvrer, 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 them scope and work; they will be your gayest companions in health, your tenderest nurses in sickness, your most faithful prop in age."

23

Chapter

AN EVENING OUT.

One fine summer day that Caroline had spent entirely alone (her uncle being at Whinbury), 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 Sahara,

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 restlessly—when Fanny came to the door, looked round over the lawn

and borders, and not seeing her whom she sought, 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 amongst the folds 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 mistress. She lifted her head with the quick motion of revived sensation; she shot, not a

languid, but a lifelike, questioning glance at Fanny.

"Harry Scott! who sent him?"

"He came from the Hollow."

The dropped note was snatched up eagerly, the seal was broken—it was read in two seconds. An affectionate billet from Hortense, informing her young cousin that she was returned from

Wormwood 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 quite sure such a change 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 Gérard 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 upstairs, cover her curls with 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 for 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 from 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 she advanced from the cottage porch to meet her. Straight, unbending, phlegmatic as usual, she came on. No haste or ecstasy was ever permitted to disorder the

dignity of
her
movements; but she smiled, well pleased to mark the delight of her pupil, to feel her kiss and the gentle, genial strain of her embrace. She led her tenderly in, half deceived 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 towards 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 towards the parlour; "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 overflowing the elbow-

chair at the fireside, 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 love-ribbon. 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 come in a friendly way to take tea with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and

as rare a favour as if the queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck with one of her subjects. A higher mark of distinction she could not show—she who in general scorned visiting and tea-drinking,

and held cheap and stigmatized as "gossips" every maid and matron of the vicinage.

There was no mistake, however; Miss Moore
was
a favourite with her. She had evinced the fact more than once—evinced it by stopping to speak to her in the churchyard 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 friend to countenance her. She might have added that her plain aspect, homely, 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 favoured 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 a 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. Nor, 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 footstool, 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 forwardness!" said Mrs. Yorke.

"But, mother, you are so frozen!" expostulated Jessie. "Miss Helstone has never done you any harm; why can't you be kind to her? You sit so stiff, and look so cold, and speak so dry—what for?

That's just the fashion in which you treat Miss Shirley Keeldar and every other young lady who comes to our house. And Rose there is such an aut—aut—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

Briarmains; Martin often says so."

"I am an automaton? Good! Let me alone, then," said Rose, speaking from 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?" 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 towards her, dwelling on her 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 Mrs. Radcliffe's—"The Italian."