Shirley (17 page)

his
vis-à-vis
, Miss Mary; though, as Mary was the most sensible, the least coquettish, of the three, to her the elderly widower was the least attentive. At heart he could not abide sense in women. He liked

to see them as silly, as light-headed, as vain, as open to ridicule as possible, because they were then in reality what he held them to be, and wished them to be—inferior, toys to play with, to amuse a vacant

hour, and to be thrown away.

Hannah was his favourite. Harriet, though beautiful, egotistical, and self-satisfied, was not quite weak enough for him. She had some genuine self-respect amidst much false pride, and if she did not

talk like an oracle, neither would she babble like one crazy; she would not permit herself to be treated quite as a doll, a child, a plaything; she expected to be bent to like a queen.

Hannah, on the contrary, demanded no respect, only flattery. If her admirers only
told
her that she was an angel, she would let them
treat
her like an idiot. So very credulous and frivolous was she, so very silly did she become when besieged with attention, flattered and admired to the proper degree,

that there were moments when Helstone actually felt tempted to commit matrimony a second time, and

to try the experiment of taking her for his second helpmeet; but fortunately the salutary recollection

of the
ennuis
of his first marriage, the impression still left on him of the weight of the millstone he had once worn round his neck, the fixity of his feelings respecting the insufferable evils of conjugal

existence, operated as a check to his tenderness, suppressed the sigh heaving his old iron lungs, and

restrained him from whispering to Hannah proposals it would have been high fun and great

satisfaction to her to hear.

It is probable she would have married him if he had asked her; her parents would have quite approved the match. To them his fifty-five years, his bend-leather heart, could have presented no obstacles; and as he was a rector, held an excellent living, occupied a good house, and was supposed

even to have private property (though in that the world was mistaken; every penny of the £5,000

inherited by him from his father had been devoted to the building and endowing of a new church at

his native village in Lancashire—for he could show a lordly munificence when he pleased, and if the

end was to his liking, never hesitated about making a grand sacrifice to attain it)—her parents, I say,

would have delivered Hannah over to his lovingkindness and his tender mercies without one scruple;

and the second Mrs. Helstone, inverting the natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered through the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days a sordid, trampled worm.

Little Mr. Sweeting, seated between Mrs. Sykes and Miss Mary, both of whom were very kind to him, and having a dish of tarts before him, and marmalade and crumpet upon his plate, looked and

felt more content than any monarch. He was fond of all the Misses Sykes; they were all fond of him.

He thought them magnificent girls, quite proper to mate with one of his inches. If he had a cause of

regret at this blissful moment, it was that Miss Dora happened to be absent—Dora being the one whom he secretly hoped one day to call Mrs. David Sweeting, with whom he dreamt of taking stately

walks, leading her like an empress through the village of Nunnely; and an empress she would have

been, if size could make an empress. She was vast, ponderous. Seen from behind, she had the air of a

very stout lady of forty; but withal she possessed a good face, and no unkindly character.

The meal at last drew to a close. It would have been over long ago if Mr. Donne had not persisted in

sitting with his cup half full of cold tea before him, long after the rest had finished and after he himself had discussed such allowance of viands as he felt competent to swallow—long, indeed, after

signs of impatience had been manifested all round the board, till chairs were pushed back, till the talk flagged, till silence fell. Vainly did Caroline inquire repeatedly if he would have another cup, if he would take a little hot tea, as that must be cold, etc.; he would neither drink it nor leave it. He seemed to think that this isolated position of his gave him somehow a certain importance, that it was dignified and stately to be the last, that it was grand to keep all the others waiting. So long did he linger, that the very urn died; it ceased to hiss. At length, however, the old rector himself, who had hitherto been too

pleasantly engaged with Hannah to care for the delay, got impatient.

"For whom are we waiting?" he asked.

"For me, I believe," returned Donne complacently, appearing to think it much to his credit that a party should thus be kept dependent on his movements.

"Tut!" cried Helstone. Then standing up, "Let us return thanks," said he; which he did forthwith, and all quitted the table. Donne, nothing abashed, still sat ten minutes quite alone, whereupon Mr. Helstone rang the bell for the things to be removed. The curate at length saw himself forced to empty his cup,

and to relinquish the
rôle
which, he thought, had given him such a felicitous distinction, drawing upon him such flattering general notice.

And now, in the natural course of events (Caroline, knowing how it would be, had opened the piano, and produced music-books in readiness), music was asked for. This was Mr. Sweeting's chance

for showing off. He was eager to commence. He undertook, therefore, the arduous task of persuading

the young ladies to favour the company with an air—a song.
Con amore
he went through the whole

business of begging, praying, resisting excuses, explaining away difficulties, and at last succeeded in

persuading Miss Harriet to allow herself to be led to the instrument. Then out came the pieces of his

flute (he always carried them in his pocket, as unfailingly as he carried his handkerchief). They were

screwed and arranged, Malone and Donne meanwhile herding together and sneering at him, which the

little man, glancing over his shoulder, saw, but did not heed at all. He was persuaded their sarcasm all arose from envy. They could not accompany the ladies as he could; he was about to enjoy a triumph

over them.

The triumph began. Malone, much chagrined at hearing him pipe up in most superior style,

determined to earn distinction too, if possible, and all at once assuming the character of a swain (which character he had endeavoured to enact once or twice before, but in which he had not hitherto

met with the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved), approached a sofa on which Miss Helstone was seated, and depositing his great Irish frame near her, tried his hand (or rather tongue) at a fine speech or two, accompanied by grins the most extraordinary and incomprehensible. In the course of his efforts to render himself agreeable, he contrived to possess himself of the two long sofa

cushions and a square one; with which, after rolling them about for some time with strange gestures,

he managed to erect a sort of barrier between himself and the object of his attentions. Caroline, quite

willing that they should be sundered, soon devised an excuse for stepping over to the opposite side of

the room, and taking up a position beside Mrs. Sykes, of which good lady she entreated some instruction in a new stitch in ornamental knitting, a favour readily granted; and thus Peter Augustus

was thrown out.

Very sullenly did his countenance lower when he saw himself abandoned—left entirely to his own

resources, on a large sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his hands. The fact was, he felt

disposed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss Helstone, because he thought, in common with

others, that her uncle possessed money, and concluded that, since he had no children, he would probably leave it to his niece. Gérard Moore was better instructed on this point: he had seen the neat

church that owed its origin to the rector's zeal and cash, and more than once, in his inmost soul, had

cursed an expensive caprice which crossed his wishes.

The evening seemed long to one person in that room. Caroline at intervals dropped her knitting on

her lap, and gave herself up to a sort of brain-lethargy—closing her eyes and depressing her head—

caused by what seemed to her the unmeaning hum around her,—the inharmonious, tasteless rattle of

the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes of the flute, the laughter and mirth of her uncle, and

Hannah, and Mary, she could not tell whence originating, for she heard nothing comic or gleeful in

their discourse; and more than all, by the interminable gossip of Mrs. Sykes murmured close at her

ear, gossip which rang the changes on four subjects—her own health and that of the various members

of her family; the missionary and Jew baskets and their contents; the late meeting at Nunnely, and one

which was expected to come off next week at Whinbury.

Tired at length to exhaustion, she embraced the opportunity of Mr. Sweeting coming up to speak to

Mrs. Sykes to slip quietly out of the apartment, and seek a moment's respite in solitude. She repaired

to the dining-room, where the clear but now low remnant of a fire still burned in the grate. The place

was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in

their places, all was orderly. Caroline sank into her uncle's large easy-chair, half shut her eyes, and

rested herself—rested at least her limbs, her senses, her hearing, her vision—weary with listening to

nothing, and gazing on vacancy. As to her mind, that flew directly to the Hollow. It stood on the threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the counting-house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the presence of Robert. It so happened that neither locality had that honour; for Robert was

half a mile away from both, and much nearer to Caroline than her deadened spirit suspected. He was

at this moment crossing the churchyard, approaching the rectory garden-gate—not, however, coming

to see his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief piece of intelligence to the rector.

Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate; it rings again for the fifth time this afternoon.

You start, and you are certain now that this must be he of whom you dream. Why you are so certain

you cannot explain to yourself, but you know it. You lean forward, listening eagerly as Fanny opens

the door. Right! That is
the
voice—low, with the slight foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy. You half rise. "Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company, and then he will go away." Oh! she cannot let him go. In spite of herself, in spite of her reason, she walks half across the room; she stands ready to dart out in case the step should retreat; but he enters the passage. "Since your master is engaged," he says, "just show me into the dining-room. Bring me pen and ink. I will write a short note and leave it for him."

Now, having caught these words, and hearing him advance, Caroline, if there was a door within the

dining-room, would glide through it and disappear. She feels caught, hemmed in; she dreads her unexpected presence may annoy him. A second since she would have flown to him; that second past,

she would flee from him. She cannot. There is no way of escape. The dining-room has but one door,

through which now enters her cousin. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his face

has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered a sort of apology:—

"I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little quiet."

There was something so diffident and downcast in the air and tone with which she said this, any one

might perceive that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that the faculty

of cheerful self-possession had left her. Mr. Moore, probably, remembered how she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle ardour and hopeful confidence. He must have seen how the

check of this morning had operated. Here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with

effect, if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to practise that system in broad daylight, in his mill-yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a quiet parlour, disengaged, at the hour of eventide.

Fanny lit the candles, which before had stood unlit on the table, brought writing materials, and left the room. Caroline was about to follow her. Moore, to act consistently, should have let her go; whereas

he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his hand, gently kept her back. He did not ask her to stay,

but he would not let her go.

"Shall I tell my uncle you are here?" asked she, still in the same subdued voice.

"No; I can say to you all I had to say to him. You will be my messenger?"

"Yes, Robert."

"Then you may just inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames; that he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and Pearson's dressing-shop,

and that I hope to have him in custody to-morrow. You can remember that?"

"Oh yes!" These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and as she said them she shook her head slightly and sighed. "Will you prosecute him?"

"Doubtless."

"No, Robert."

"And why no, Caroline?"

"Because it will set all the neighbourhood against you more than ever."

"That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief."

"But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. It is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and hit their mark 'at last.'"