Shirley (38 page)

in a small select reunion that evening at Fieldhead. Miss Ainley was to meet them, and the plan was to

be discussed in full privy council.

Shirley managed to get the senior priesthood together accordingly, and before the old maid's arrival, she had, further, talked all the gentlemen into the most charming mood imaginable. She herself had taken in hand Dr. Boultby and Mr. Helstone. The first was a stubborn old Welshman, hot,

opinionated, and obstinate, but withal a man who did a great deal of good, though not without making

some noise about it. The latter we know. She had rather a friendly feeling for both, especially for old

Helstone; and it cost her no trouble to be quite delightful to them. She took them round the garden;

she gathered them flowers; she was like a kind daughter to them. Mr. Hall she left to Caroline—or rather, it was to Caroline's care Mr. Hall consigned himself.

He generally sought Caroline in every party where she and he happened to be. He was not in general a lady's man, though all ladies liked him; something of a book-worm he was, near-sighted,

spectacled, now and then abstracted. To old ladies he was kind as a son. To men of every occupation

and grade he was acceptable. The truth, simplicity, frankness of his manners, the nobleness of his integrity, the reality and elevation of his piety, won him friends in every grade. His poor clerk and sexton delighted in him; the noble patron of his living esteemed him highly. It was only with young,

handsome, fashionable, and stylish ladies he felt a little shy. Being himself a plain man—plain in aspect, plain in manners, plain in speech—he seemed to fear their dash, elegance, and airs. But Miss

Helstone had neither dash nor airs, and her native elegance was of a very quiet order—quiet as the beauty of a ground-loving hedge-flower. He was a fluent, cheerful, agreeable talker. Caroline could

talk too in a
tête-à-tête
. She liked Mr. Hall to come and take the seat next her in a party, and thus secure her from Peter Augustus Malone, Joseph Donne, or John Sykes; and Mr. Hall never failed to

avail himself of this privilege when he possibly could. Such preference shown by a single gentleman

to a single lady would certainly, in ordinary cases, have set in motion the tongues of the gossips; but

Cyril Hall was forty-five years old, slightly bald, and slightly gray, and nobody ever said or thought

he was likely to be married to Miss Helstone. Nor did he think so himself. He was wedded already to

his books and his parish. His kind sister Margaret, spectacled and learned like himself, made him happy in his single state; he considered it too late to change. Besides, he had known Caroline as a pretty little girl. She had sat on his knee many a time; he had bought her toys and given her books; he

felt that her friendship for him was mixed with a sort of filial respect; he could not have brought himself to attempt to give another colour to her sentiments, and his serene mind could glass a fair image without feeling its depths troubled by the reflection.

When Miss Ainley arrived, she was made kindly welcome by every one. Mrs. Pryor and Margaret

Hall made room for her on the sofa between them; and when the three were seated, they formed a trio

which the gay and thoughtless would have scorned, indeed, as quite worthless and unattractive—a middle-aged widow and two plain, spectacled old maids—yet which had its own quiet value, as many

a suffering and friendless human being knew.

Shirley opened the business and showed the plan.

"I know the hand which drew up that," said Mr. Hall, glancing at Miss Ainley, and smiling benignantly. His approbation was won at once. Boultby heard and deliberated with bent brow and protruded under lip. His consent he considered too weighty to be given in a hurry. Helstone glanced

sharply round with an alert, suspicious expression, as if he apprehended that female craft was at work,

and that something in petticoats was somehow trying underhand to acquire too much influence, and

make itself of too much importance. Shirley caught and comprehended the expression. "This scheme

is nothing," said she carelessly. "It is only an outline—a mere suggestion. You, gentlemen, are requested to draw up rules of your own."

And she directly fetched her writing-case, smiling queerly to herself as she bent over the table where it stood. She produced a sheet of paper, a new pen, drew an arm-chair to the table, and presenting her hand to old Helstone, begged permission to install him in it. For a minute he was a little stiff, and stood wrinkling his copper-coloured forehead strangely. At last he muttered, "Well, you are neither my wife nor my daughter, so I'll be led for once; but mind—I know I
am
led. Your little female manœuvres don't blind me."

"Oh!" said Shirley, dipping the pen in the ink, and putting it into his hand, "you must regard me as Captain Keeldar to-day. This is quite a gentleman's affair—yours and mine entirely, doctor" (so she had dubbed the rector). "The ladies there are only to be our aides-de-camp, and at their peril they speak, till we have settled the whole business."

He smiled a little grimly, and began to write. He soon interrupted himself to ask questions, and consult his brethren, disdainfully lifting his glance over the curly heads of the two girls and the demure caps of the elder ladies, to meet the winking glasses and gray pates of the priests. In the discussion which ensued, all three gentlemen, to their infinite credit, showed a thorough acquaintance

with the poor of their parishes—an even minute knowledge of their separate wants. Each rector knew

where clothing was needed, where food would be most acceptable, where money could be bestowed

with a probability of it being judiciously laid out. Wherever their memories fell short, Miss Ainley or

Miss Hall, if applied to, could help them out; but both ladies took care not to speak unless spoken to.

Neither of them wanted to be foremost, but each sincerely desired to be useful; and useful the clergy

consented to make them—with which boon they were content.

Shirley stood behind the rectors, leaning over their shoulders now and then to glance at the rules

drawn up and the list of cases making out, listening to all they said, and still at intervals smiling her queer smile—a smile not ill-natured, but significant—too significant to be generally thought amiable.

Men rarely like such of their fellows as read their inward nature too clearly and truly. It is good for

women, especially, to be endowed with a soft blindness; to have mild, dim eyes, that never penetrate

below the surface of things—that take all for what it seems. Thousands, knowing this, keep their eyelids drooped on system; but the most downcast glance has its loophole, through which it can, on

occasion, take its sentinel-survey of life. I remember once seeing a pair of blue eyes, that were usually thought sleepy, secretly on the alert, and I knew by their expression—an expression which chilled my blood, it was in that quarter so wondrously unexpected—that for years they had been accustomed to silent soul-reading. The world called the owner of these blue eyes
bonne petite femme

(she was not an Englishwoman). I learned her nature afterwards—got it off by heart—studied it in its

farthest, most hidden recesses. She was the finest, deepest, subtlest schemer in Europe.

When all was at length settled to Miss Keeldar's mind, and the clergy had entered so fully into the

spirit of her plans as to head the subscription-list with their signatures for £50 each, she ordered supper to be served, having previously directed Mrs. Gill to exercise her utmost skill in the preparation of this repast. Mr. Hall was no
bon vivant
—he was naturally an abstemious man, indifferent to luxury; but Boultby and Helstone both liked good cookery. The
recherché
supper consequently put them into excellent humour. They did justice to it, though in a gentlemanly way—not

in the mode Mr. Donne would have done had he been present. A glass of fine wine was likewise tasted,

with discerning though most decorous relish. Captain Keeldar was complimented on his taste; the compliment charmed him. It had been his aim to gratify and satisfy his priestly guests. He had succeeded, and was radiant with glee.

15

Chapter

MR. DONNE'S EXODUS.

The next day Shirley expressed to Caroline how delighted she felt that the little party had gone off so

well.

"I rather like to entertain a circle of gentlemen," said she. "It is amusing to observe how they enjoy a judiciously concocted repast. For ourselves, you see, these choice wines and these scientific dishes

are of no importance to us; but gentlemen seem to retain something of the
naïveté
of children about food, and one likes to please them—that is, when they show the becoming, decent self-government of

our admirable rectors. I watch Moore sometimes, to try and discover how he can be pleased; but he

has not that child's simplicity about him. Did you ever find out his accessible point, Caroline? you have seen more of him than I."

"It is not, at any rate, that of my uncle and Dr. Boultby," returned Caroline, smiling. She always felt a sort of shy pleasure in following Miss Keeldar's lead respecting the discussion of her cousin's character. Left to herself, she would never have touched on the subject; but when invited, the temptation of talking about him of whom she was ever thinking was irresistible. "But," she added, "I really don't know what it is, for I never watched Robert in my life but my scrutiny was presently baffled by finding he was watching me."

"There it is!" exclaimed Shirley. "You can't fix your eyes on him but his presently flash on you. He is never off his guard. He won't give you an advantage. Even when he does not look at you, his thoughts seem to be busy amongst your own thoughts, tracing your words and actions to their source,

contemplating your motives at his ease. Oh! I know that sort of character, or something in the same

style. It is one that piques me singularly. How does it affect you?"

This question was a specimen of one of Shirley's sharp, sudden turns. Caroline used to be fluttered

by them at first, but she had now got into the way of parrying these home-thrusts like a little Quakeress.

"Pique you? In what way does it pique you?" she said.

"Here he comes!" suddenly exclaimed Shirley, breaking off, starting up and running to the window.

"Here comes a diversion. I never told you of a superb conquest I have made lately—made at those parties to which I can never persuade you to accompany me; and the thing has been done without effort or intention on my part—that I aver. There is the bell—and, by all that's delicious! there are two of them. Do they never hunt, then, except in couples? You may have one, Lina, and you may take your

choice. I hope I am generous enough. Listen to Tartar!"

The black-muzzled, tawny dog, a glimpse of which was seen in the chapter which first introduced

its mistress to the reader, here gave tongue in the hall, amidst whose hollow space the deep bark resounded formidably. A growl more terrible than the bark, menacing as muttered thunder, succeeded.

"Listen!" again cried Shirley, laughing. "You would think that the prelude to a bloody onslaught.

They will be frightened. They don't know old Tartar as I do. They are not aware his uproars are all

sound and fury, signifying nothing!"

Some bustle was heard. "Down, sir, down!" exclaimed a high-toned, imperious voice, and then came a crack of a cane or whip. Immediately there was a yell—a scutter—a run—a positive tumult.

"O Malone, Malone!"

"Down! down! down!" cried the high voice.

"He really is worrying them!" exclaimed Shirley. "They have struck him. A blow is what he is not used to, and will not take."

Out she ran. A gentleman was fleeing up the oak staircase, making for refuge in the gallery or chambers in hot haste; another was backing fast to the stairfoot, wildly flourishing a knotty stick, at

the same time reiterating, "Down! down! down!" while the tawny dog bayed, bellowed, howled at him, and a group of servants came bundling from the kitchen. The dog made a spring; the second gentleman turned tail and rushed after his comrade. The first was already safe in a bedroom; he held

the door against his fellow—nothing so merciless as terror. But the other fugitive struggled hard; the

door was about to yield to his strength.

"Gentlemen," was uttered in Miss Keeldar's silvery but vibrating tones, "spare my locks, if you please. Calm yourselves! Come down! Look at Tartar; he won't harm a cat."

She was caressing the said Tartar. He lay crouched at her feet, his fore paws stretched out, his tail

still in threatening agitation, his nostrils snorting, his bulldog eyes conscious of a dull fire. He was an honest, phlegmatic, stupid, but stubborn canine character. He loved his mistress and John—the man who fed him—but was mostly indifferent to the rest of the world. Quiet enough he was, unless struck

or threatened with a stick, and that put a demon into him at once.

"Mr. Malone, how do you do?" continued Shirley, lifting up her mirth-lit face to the gallery. "That is not the way to the oak parlour; that is Mrs. Pryor's apartment. Request your friend Mr. Donne to evacuate. I shall have the greatest pleasure in receiving him in a lower room."

"Ha! ha!" cried Malone, in hollow laughter, quitting the door, and leaning over the massive balustrade. "Really that animal alarmed Donne. He is a little timid," he proceeded, stiffening himself, and walking trimly to the stairhead. "I thought it better to follow, in order to reassure him."

"It appears you did. Well, come down, if you please.—John" (turning to her manservant), "go upstairs and liberate Mr. Donne.—Take care, Mr. Malone; the stairs are slippery."

In truth they were, being of polished oak. The caution came a little late for Malone. He had slipped