Miss Helstone was in this position. Her sufferings were her only spur, and being very real and sharp, they roused her spirit keenly. Bent3 on victory over a mortal pain, she did her best to quell4 it. Never had she been seen so busy, so studious, and, above all, so active. She took walks in all weathers, long walks in solitary5 directions. Day by day she came back in the evening, pale and wearied-looking, yet seemingly not fatigued6; for still, as soon as she had thrown off her bonnet7 and shawl, she would, instead of resting, begin to pace her apartment. Sometimes she would not sit down till she was literally8 faint. She said she did this to tire herself well, that she might sleep soundly at night. But if that was her aim it was unattained; for at night, when others slumbered9, she was tossing on her pillow, or sitting at the foot of her couch in the darkness, forgetful, apparently10, of the necessity of seeking repose11. Often, unhappy girl! she was crying—crying in a sort of intolerable despair, which, when it rushed over her, smote12 down her strength, and reduced her to childlike helplessness.
When thus prostrate13, temptations besieged14 her. Weak suggestions whispered in her weary heart to write to Robert, and say that she was unhappy because she was forbidden to see him and Hortense, and that she feared he would withdraw his friendship (not love) from her, and forget her entirely16, and begging him to remember her, and sometimes to write to her. One or two such letters she actually indited17, but she never sent them: shame and good sense forbade.
At last the life she led reached the point when it seemed she could bear it no longer, that she must seek and find a change somehow, or her heart and head would fail under the pressure which strained them. She longed to leave Briarfield, to go to some very distant place. She longed for something else—the deep, secret, anxious yearning18 to discover and know her mother strengthened daily; but with the desire was coupled a doubt, a dread—if she knew her, could she love her? There was cause for hesitation19, for apprehension20 on this point. Never in her life had she heard that mother praised; whoever mentioned her mentioned her coolly. Her uncle seemed to regard his sister-in-law with a sort of tacit antipathy21; an old servant, who had lived with Mrs. James Helstone for a short time after her marriage, whenever she referred to her former mistress, spoke22 with chilling reserve—sometimes she called her "queer," sometimes she said she did not understand her. These expressions were ice to the daughter's heart; they suggested the conclusion that it was perhaps better never to know her parent than to know her and not like her.
But one project could she frame whose execution seemed likely to bring her a hope of relief: it was to take a situation, to be a governess; she could do nothing else. A little incident brought her to the point, when she found courage to break her design to her uncle.
Her long and late walks lay always, as has been said, on lonely roads; but in whatever direction she had rambled—whether along the drear skirts of Stilbro' Moor23 or over the sunny stretch of Nunnely Common—her homeward path was still so contrived25 as to lead her near the Hollow. She rarely descended26 the den15, but she visited its brink28 at twilight29 almost as regularly as the stars rose over the hillcrests. Her resting-place was at a certain stile under a certain old thorn. Thence she could look down on the cottage, the mill, the dewy garden-ground, the still, deep dam; thence was visible the well-known counting-house window, from whose panes30 at a fixed31 hour shot, suddenly bright, the ray of the well-known lamp. Her errand was to watch for this ray, her reward to catch it, sometimes sparkling bright in clear air, sometimes shimmering32 dim through mist, and anon flashing broken between slant33 lines of rain—for she came in all weathers.
There were nights when it failed to appear. She knew then that Robert was from home, and went away doubly166 sad; whereas its kindling34 rendered her elate, as though she saw in it the promise of some indefinite hope. If, while she gazed, a shadow bent between the light and lattice, her heart leaped. That eclipse was Robert; she had seen him. She would return home comforted, carrying in her mind a clearer vision of his aspect, a distincter recollection of his voice, his smile, his bearing; and blent with these impressions was often a sweet persuasion35 that, if she could get near him, his heart might welcome her presence yet, that at this moment he might be willing to extend his hand and draw her to him, and shelter her at his side as he used to do. That night, though she might weep as usual, she would fancy her tears less scalding; the pillow they watered seemed a little softer; the temples pressed to that pillow ached less.
The shortest path from the Hollow to the rectory wound near a certain mansion36, the same under whose lone2 walls Malone passed on that night-journey mentioned in an early chapter of this work—the old and tenantless38 dwelling39 yclept Fieldhead. Tenantless by the proprietor40 it had been for ten years, but it was no ruin. Mr. Yorke had seen it kept in good repair, and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it, cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in habitable condition.
If Fieldhead had few other merits as a building, it might at least be termed picturesque41. Its regular architecture, and the gray and mossy colouring communicated by time, gave it a just claim to this epithet42. The old latticed windows, the stone porch, the walls, the roof, the chimney-stacks, were rich in crayon touches and sepia lights and shades. The trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading; the cedar43 on the lawn in front was grand; and the granite44 urns45 on the garden wall, the fretted46 arch of the gateway47, were, for an artist, as the very desire of the eye.
One mild May evening Caroline, passing near about moonrise, and feeling, though weary, unwilling48 yet to go home, where there was only the bed of thorns and the night of grief to anticipate, sat down on the mossy ground near the gate, and gazed through towards cedar and mansion. It was a still night—calm, dewy, cloudless; the gables, turned to the west, reflected the clear amber49 of the horizon they faced; the oaks behind were black; the cedar was blacker. Under its dense50, raven51 boughs52 a glimpse of sky opened gravely blue. It was full of the moon, which167 looked solemnly and mildly down on Caroline from beneath that sombre canopy53.
She felt this night and prospect54 mournfully lovely. She wished she could be happy; she wished she could know inward peace; she wondered Providence55 had no pity on her, and would not help or console her. Recollections of happy trysts57 of lovers, commemorated58 in old ballads59, returned on her mind; she thought such tryst56 in such scene would be blissful. Where now was Robert? she asked. Not at the Hollow; she had watched for his lamp long, and had not seen it. She questioned within herself whether she and Moore were ever destined60 to meet and speak again. Suddenly the door within the stone porch of the hall opened, and two men came out—one elderly and white-headed, the other young, dark-haired, and tall. They passed across the lawn, out through a portal in the garden wall. Caroline saw them cross the road, pass the stile, descend27 the fields; she saw them disappear. Robert Moore had passed before her with his friend Mr. Yorke. Neither had seen her.
The apparition61 had been transient—scarce seen ere gone; but its electric passage left her veins62 kindled63, her soul insurgent64. It found her despairing, it left her desperate—two different states.
"Oh, had he but been alone! had he but seen me!" was her cry. "He would have said something. He would have given me his hand. He does, he must, love me a little. He would have shown some token of affection. In his eye, on his lips, I should have read comfort; but the chance is lost. The wind, the cloud's shadow, does not pass more silently, more emptily than he. I have been mocked, and Heaven is cruel!"
The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared white-cheeked and miserable-looking as one who had seen a ghost, she inquired of Mr. Helstone, "Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiring for a situation in a family?"
Her uncle, ignorant as the table supporting his coffee-cup of all his niece had undergone and was undergoing, scarcely believed his ears.
"I am not well, and need a change," she said.
He examined her. He discovered she had experienced a168 change, at any rate. Without his being aware of it, the rose had dwindled67 and faded to a mere68 snowdrop; bloom had vanished, flesh wasted; she sat before him drooping69, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance of her hair, she would no longer have possessed70 a claim to the epithet pretty.
No answer; only the brown eyes filled, the faintly-tinted lips trembled.
"Look out for a situation, indeed! For what situation are you fit? What have you been doing with yourself? You are not well."
"I should be well if I went from home."
"These women are incomprehensible. They have the strangest knack72 of startling you with unpleasant surprises. To-day you see them bouncing, buxom73, red as cherries, and round as apples; to-morrow they exhibit themselves effete74 as dead weeds, blanched75 and broken down. And the reason of it all? That's the puzzle. She has her meals, her liberty, a good house to live in, and good clothes to wear, as usual. A while since that sufficed to keep her handsome and cheery, and there she sits now a poor, little, pale, puling chit enough. Provoking! Then comes the question, What is to be done? I suppose I must send for advice. Will you have a doctor, child?"
"No, uncle, I don't want one. A doctor could do me no good. I merely want change of air and scene."
"Well, if that be the caprice, it shall be gratified. You shall go to a watering-place. I don't mind the expense. Fanny shall accompany you."
"But, uncle, some day I must do something for myself; I have no fortune. I had better begin now."
"While I live, you shall not turn out as a governess, Caroline. I will not have it said that my niece is a governess."
"But the later in life one makes a change of that sort, uncle, the more difficult and painful it is. I should wish to get accustomed to the yoke76 before any habits of ease and independence are formed."
"I beg you will not harass77 me, Caroline. I mean to provide for you. I have always meant to provide for you. I will purchase an annuity78. Bless me! I am but fifty-five;169 my health and constitution are excellent. There is plenty of time to save and take measures. Don't make yourself anxious respecting the future. Is that what frets79 you?"
"No, uncle; but I long for a change."
He laughed. "There speaks the woman!" cried he, "the very woman! A change! a change! Always fantastical and whimsical! Well, it's in her sex."
"But it is not fantasy and whim, uncle."
"What is it then?"
"Admirable! She feels weak, and therefore she should be set to hard labour—'clair comme le jour,' as Moore—confound Moore! You shall go to Cliff Bridge; and there are two guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary, never fear. We'll find balm in Gilead."
"Uncle, I wish you were less generous and more——"
"More what?"
Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but it was not uttered. She checked herself in time. Her uncle would indeed have laughed if that namby-pamby word had escaped her. Finding her silent, he said, "The fact is, you don't know precisely81 what you want."
"Only to be a governess."
"Pooh! mere nonsense! I'll not hear of governessing. Don't mention it again. It is rather too feminine a fancy. I have finished breakfast. Ring the bell. Put all crotchets out of your head, and run away and amuse yourself."
"What with? My doll?" asked Caroline to herself as she quitted the room.
A week or two passed; her bodily and mental health neither grew worse nor better. She was now precisely in that state when, if her constitution had contained the seeds of consumption, decline, or slow fever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, and would soon have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love or grief alone, though some die of inherent maladies which the tortures of those passions prematurely82 force into destructive action. The sound by nature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered; their beauty and bloom perish, but life remains83 untouched. They are brought to a certain point of dilapidation84; they are reduced to pallor, debility, and emaciation85. People think, as they see them170 gliding86 languidly about, that they will soon withdraw to sick-beds, perish there, and cease from among the healthy and happy. This does not happen. They live on; and though they cannot regain87 youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and serenity88. The blossom which the March wind nips, but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a withered89 apple on the tree late into autumn: having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of winter.
Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and most people said she was going to die. She never thought so herself. She felt in no dying case; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her appetite was diminished; she knew the reason. It was because she wept so much at night. Her strength was lessened90; she could account for it. Sleep was coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing91 and baleful. In the far future she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of misery92 should be got over, and when she should once more be calm, though perhaps never again happy.
Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit, to comply with the frequent invitations of their acquaintance. This she evaded93 doing. She could not be cheerful in company; she felt she was observed there with more curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her their advice, recommending this or that nostrum94; young ladies looked at her in a way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they knew she had been "disappointed," as custom phrases it; by whom, they were not certain.
Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as commonplace young gentlemen—quite as worldly and selfish. Those who suffer should always avoid them. Grief and calamity95 they despise; they seem to regard them as the judgments96 of God on the lowly. With them, to "love" is merely to contrive24 a scheme for achieving a good match; to be "disappointed" is to have their scheme seen through and frustrated98. They think the feelings and projects of others on the subject of love similar to their own, and judge them accordingly.
All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly by observation. She regulated her conduct by her knowledge, keeping her pale face and wasted figure as much out of sight as she could. Living thus in complete seclusion99, she ceased to receive intelligence of the little transactions of the neighbourhood.
One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she sat endeavouring to find some pleasure in painting a little group of wild flowers, gathered under a hedge at the top of the Hollow fields, and said to her in his abrupt101 manner, "Come, child, you are always stooping over palette, or book, or sampler; leave that tinting102 work. By-the-bye, do you put your pencil to your lips when you paint?"
"Sometimes, uncle, when I forget."
"Then it is that which is poisoning you. The paints are deleterious, child. There is white lead and red lead, and verdigris103, and gamboge, and twenty other poisons in those colour cakes. Lock them up! lock them up! Get your bonnet on. I want you to make a call with me."
"With you, uncle?"
This question was asked in a tone of surprise. She was not accustomed to make calls with her uncle. She never rode or walked out with him on any occasion.
"Quick! quick! I am always busy, you know. I have no time to lose."
She hurriedly gathered up her materials, asking, meantime, where they were going.
"To Fieldhead."
"Fieldhead! What! to see old James Booth, the gardener? Is he ill?"
"We are going to see Miss Shirley Keeldar."
"Miss Keeldar! Is she coming to Yorkshire? Is she at Fieldhead?"
"She is. She has been there a week. I met her at a party last night—that party to which you would not go. I was pleased with her. I choose that you shall make her acquaintance. It will do you good."
"She is now come of age, I suppose?"
"She is come of age, and will reside for a time on her property. I lectured her on the subject; I showed her her duty. She is not intractable. She is rather a fine girl; she will teach you what it is to have a sprightly104 spirit. Nothing lackadaisical105 about her."
"I don't think she will want to see me, or to have me introduced to her. What good can I do her? How can I amuse her?"
"Pshaw! Put your bonnet on."
"Is she proud, uncle?"
"Don't know. You hardly imagine she would show her pride to me, I suppose? A chit like that would scarcely172 presume to give herself airs with the rector of her parish, however rich she might be."
"No. But how did she behave to other people?"
"Didn't observe. She holds her head high, and probably can be saucy106 enough where she dare. She wouldn't be a woman otherwise. There! Away now for your bonnet at once!"
Not naturally very confident, a failure of physical strength and a depression of spirits had not tended to increase Caroline's presence of mind and ease of manner, or to give her additional courage to face strangers, and she quailed107, in spite of self-remonstrance, as she and her uncle walked up the broad, paved approach leading from the gateway of Fieldhead to its porch. She followed Mr. Helstone reluctantly through that porch into the sombre old vestibule beyond.
Very sombre it was—long, vast, and dark; one latticed window lit it but dimly. The wide old chimney contained now no fire, for the present warm weather needed it not; it was filled instead with willow-boughs. The gallery on high, opposite the entrance, was seen but in outline, so shadowy became this hall towards its ceiling. Carved stags' heads, with real antlers, looked down grotesquely108 from the walls. This was neither a grand nor a comfortable house; within as without it was antique, rambling109, and incommodious. A property of a thousand a year belonged to it, which property had descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female. There were mercantile families in the district boasting twice the income, but the Keeldars, by virtue110 of their antiquity111, and their distinction of lords of the manor112, took the precedence of all.
Mr. and Miss Helstone were ushered113 into a parlour. Of course, as was to be expected in such a Gothic old barrack, this parlour was lined with oak: fine, dark, glossy114 panels compassed the walls gloomily and grandly. Very handsome, reader, these shining brown panels are, very mellow115 in colouring and tasteful in effect, but—if you know what a "spring clean" is—very execrable and inhuman116. Whoever, having the bowels117 of humanity, has seen servants scrubbing at these polished wooden walls with beeswaxed cloths on a warm May day must allow that they are "intolerable and not to be endured;" and I cannot but secretly applaud the benevolent118 barbarian119 who had painted another and larger apartment of Fieldhead—the drawing-room,173 to wit, formerly also an oak-room—of a delicate pinky white, thereby120 earning for himself the character of a Hun, but mightily121 enhancing the cheerfulness of that portion of his abode122, and saving future housemaids a world of toil123.
The brown-panelled parlour was furnished all in old style, and with real old furniture. On each side of the high mantelpiece stood two antique chairs of oak, solid as silvan thrones, and in one of these sat a lady. But if this were Miss Keeldar, she must have come of age at least some twenty years ago. She was of matronly form, and though she wore no cap, and possessed hair of quite an undimmed auburn, shading small and naturally young-looking features, she had no youthful aspect, nor apparently the wish to assume it. You could have wished her attire124 of a newer fashion. In a well-cut, well-made gown hers would have been no uncomely presence. It puzzled you to guess why a garment of handsome materials should be arranged in such scanty125 folds, and devised after such an obsolete126 mode. You felt disposed to set down the wearer as somewhat eccentric at once.
This lady received the visitors with a mixture of ceremony and diffidence quite English. No middle-aged127 matron who was not an Englishwoman could evince precisely the same manner—a manner so uncertain of herself, of her own merits, of her power to please, and yet so anxious to be proper, and, if possible, rather agreeable than otherwise. In the present instance, however, more embarrassment128 was shown than is usual even with diffident Englishwomen. Miss Helstone felt this, sympathized with the stranger, and knowing by experience what was good for the timid, took a seat quietly near her, and began to talk to her with a gentle ease, communicated for the moment by the presence of one less self-possessed than herself.
She and this lady would, if alone, have at once got on extremely well together. The lady had the clearest voice imaginable—infinitely softer and more tuneful than could have been reasonably expected from forty years—and a form decidedly inclined to embonpoint. This voice Caroline liked; it atoned129 for the formal, if correct, accent and language. The lady would soon have discovered she liked it and her, and in ten minutes they would have been friends. But Mr. Helstone stood on the rug looking at them both, looking especially at the strange lady with his174 sarcastic130, keen eye, that clearly expressed impatience131 of her chilly132 ceremony, and annoyance133 at her want of aplomb134. His hard gaze and rasping voice discomfited135 the lady more and more. She tried, however, to get up little speeches about the weather, the aspect of the country, etc.; but the impracticable Mr. Helstone presently found himself somewhat deaf. Whatever she said he affected136 not to hear distinctly, and she was obliged to go over each elaborately-constructed nothing twice. The effort soon became too much for her. She was just rising in a perplexed137 flutter, nervously138 murmuring that she knew not what detained Miss Keeldar, that she would go and look for her, when Miss Keeldar saved her the trouble by appearing. It was to be presumed at least that she who now came in through a glass door from the garden owned that name.
There is real grace in ease of manner, and so old Helstone felt when an erect139, slight girl walked up to him, retaining with her left hand her little silk apron140 full of flowers, and, giving him her right hand, said pleasantly, "I knew you would come to see me, though you do think Mr. Yorke has made me a Jacobin. Good-morning."
"But we'll not have you a Jacobin," returned he. "No, Miss Shirley; they shall not steal the flower of my parish from me. Now that you are amongst us, you shall be my pupil in politics and religion; I'll teach you sound doctrine141 on both points."
"Mrs. Pryor has anticipated you," she replied, turning to the elder lady. "Mrs. Pryor, you know, was my governess, and is still my friend; and of all the high and rigid142 Tories she is queen; of all the stanch143 churchwomen she is chief. I have been well drilled both in theology and history, I assure you, Mr. Helstone."
The rector immediately bowed very low to Mrs. Pryor, and expressed himself obliged to her.
The ex-governess disclaimed144 skill either in political or religious controversy145, explained that she thought such matters little adapted for female minds, but avowed146 herself in general terms the advocate of order and loyalty147, and, of course, truly attached to the Establishment. She added she was ever averse148 to change under any circumstances, and something scarcely audible about the extreme danger of being too ready to take up new ideas closed her sentence.
"Miss Keeldar thinks as you think, I hope, madam."
"Difference of age and difference of temperament149 occasion difference of sentiment," was the reply. "It can scarcely be expected that the eager and young should hold the opinions of the cool and middle-aged."
"Oh! oh! we are independent; we think for ourselves!" cried Mr. Helstone. "We are a little Jacobin, for anything I know—a little freethinker, in good earnest. Let us have a confession150 of faith on the spot."
And he took the heiress's two hands—causing her to let fall her whole cargo151 of flowers—and seated her by him on the sofa.
"The Apostles' Creed?"
"Yes."
She said it like a child.
"Now for St. Athanasius's. That's the test!"
"Let me gather up my flowers. Here is Tartar coming; he will tread upon them."
Tartar was a rather large, strong, and fierce-looking dog, very ugly, being of a breed between mastiff and bulldog, who at this moment entered through the glass door, and posting directly to the rug, snuffed the fresh flowers scattered153 there. He seemed to scorn them as food; but probably thinking their velvety154 petals155 might be convenient as litter, he was turning round preparatory to depositing his tawny156 bulk upon them, when Miss Helstone and Miss Keeldar simultaneously157 stooped to the rescue.
"Thank you," said the heiress, as she again held out her little apron for Caroline to heap the blossoms into it. "Is this your daughter, Mr. Helstone?" she asked.
"My niece Caroline."
Miss Keeldar shook hands with her, and then looked at her. Caroline also looked at her hostess.
Shirley Keeldar (she had no Christian158 name but Shirley: her parents, who had wished to have a son, finding that, after eight years of marriage, Providence had granted them only a daughter, bestowed159 on her the same masculine family cognomen160 they would have bestowed on a boy, if with a boy they had been blessed)—Shirley Keeldar was no ugly heiress. She was agreeable to the eye. Her height and shape were not unlike Miss Helstone's; perhaps in stature161 she might have the advantage by an inch or two. She was gracefully162 made, and her face, too, possessed a charm as well described by the word grace176 as any other. It was pale naturally, but intelligent, and of varied163 expression. She was not a blonde, like Caroline. Clear and dark were the characteristics of her aspect as to colour. Her face and brow were clear, her eyes of the darkest gray (no green lights in them—transparent, pure, neutral gray), and her hair of the darkest brown. Her features were distinguished164—by which I do not mean that they were high, bony, and Roman, being indeed rather small and slightly marked than otherwise, but only that they were, to use a few French words, "fins165, gracieux, spirituels"—mobile they were and speaking; but their changes were not to be understood nor their language interpreted all at once. She examined Caroline seriously, inclining her head a little to one side, with a thoughtful air.
"You see she is only a feeble chick," observed Mr. Helstone.
"She looks young—younger than I.—How old are you?" she inquired in a manner that would have been patronizing if it had not been extremely solemn and simple.
"Eighteen years and six months."
"And I am twenty-one."
She said no more. She had now placed her flowers on the table, and was busied in arranging them.
"And St. Athanasius's Creed?" urged the rector. "You believe it all, don't you?"
"I can't remember it quite all. I will give you a nosegay, Mr. Helstone, when I have given your niece one."
She had selected a little bouquet166 of one brilliant and two or three delicate flowers, relieved by a spray of dark verdure. She tied it with silk from her work-box, and placed it on Caroline's lap; and then she put her hands behind her, and stood bending slightly towards her guest, still regarding her, in the attitude and with something of the aspect of a grave but gallant167 little cavalier. This temporary expression of face was aided by the style in which she wore her hair, parted on one temple, and brushed in a glossy sweep above the forehead, whence it fell in curls that looked natural, so free were their wavy168 undulations.
"Are you tired with your walk?" she inquired.
"No—not in the least. It is but a short distance—but a mile."
"You look pale.—Is she always so pale?" she asked, turning to the rector.
"Why is she altered? What has made her pale? Has she been ill?"
"She tells me she wants a change."
"She ought to have one. You ought to give her one. You should send her to the sea-coast."
"I will, ere summer is over. Meantime, I intend her to make acquaintance with you, if you have no objection."
"I am sure Miss Keeldar will have no objection," here observed Mrs. Pryor. "I think I may take it upon me to say that Miss Helstone's frequent presence at Fieldhead will be esteemed170 a favour."
"You speak my sentiments precisely, ma'am," said Shirley, "and I thank you for anticipating me.—Let me tell you," she continued, turning again to Caroline, "that you also ought to thank my governess. It is not every one she would welcome as she has welcomed you. You are distinguished more than you think. This morning, as soon as you are gone, I shall ask Mrs. Pryor's opinion of you. I am apt to rely on her judgment97 of character, for hitherto I have found it wondrous171 accurate. Already I foresee a favourable172 answer to my inquiries173.—Do I not guess rightly, Mrs. Pryor?"
"My dear, you said but now you would ask my opinion when Miss Helstone was gone. I am scarcely likely to give it in her presence."
"No; and perhaps it will be long enough before I obtain it.—I am sometimes sadly tantalized174, Mr. Helstone, by Mrs. Pryor's extreme caution. Her judgments ought to be correct when they come, for they are often as tardy175 of delivery as a Lord Chancellor's. On some people's characters I cannot get her to pronounce a sentence, entreat176 as I may."
Mrs. Pryor here smiled.
"Yes," said her pupil, "I know what that smile means. You are thinking of my gentleman-tenant37.—Do you know Mr. Moore of the Hollow?" she asked Mr. Helstone.
"Ay! ay! Your tenant—so he is. You have seen a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?"
"I have been obliged to see him. There was business to transact100. Business! Really the word makes me conscious I am indeed no longer a girl, but quite a woman and something more. I am an esquire! Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to be my style and title. They gave me178 a man's name; I hold a man's position. It is enough to inspire me with a touch of manhood; and when I see such people as that stately Anglo-Belgian—that Gérard Moore—before me, gravely talking to me of business, really I feel quite gentlemanlike. You must choose me for your churchwarden, Mr. Helstone, the next time you elect new ones. They ought to make me a magistrate178 and a captain of yeomanry. Tony Lumpkin's mother was a colonel, and his aunt a justice of the peace. Why shouldn't I be?"
"With all my heart. If you choose to get up a requisition on the subject, I promise to head the list of signatures with my name. But you were speaking of Moore?"
"Ah! yes. I find it a little difficult to understand Mr. Moore, to know what to think of him, whether to like him or not. He seems a tenant of whom any proprietor might be proud—and proud of him I am, in that sense; but as a neighbour, what is he? Again and again I have entreated179 Mrs. Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still evades returning a direct answer. I hope you will be less oracular, Mr. Helstone, and pronounce at once. Do you like him?"
"What is the matter? What has he done?"
"My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low voice of Caroline. She had better not have spoken just then. Having scarcely joined in the conversation before, it was not apropos181 to do it now. She felt this with nervous acuteness as soon as she had spoken, and coloured to the eyes.
"What are Moore's politics?" inquired Shirley.
"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector—"narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and speaking against the continuance of the war. I have no patience with him."
"The war hurts his trade. I remember he remarked that only yesterday. But what other objection have you to him?"
"That is enough."
"He looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term," pursued Shirley, "and it pleases me to think he is such."
Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant flower in her bouquet, and answered in distinct tones, "Decidedly he is." Shirley, hearing this courageous182 affirmation, flashed179 an arch, searching glance at the speaker from her deep, expressive183 eyes.
"You are his friend, at any rate," she said. "You defend him in his absence."
"I am both his friend and his relative," was the prompt reply. "Robert Moore is my cousin."
Insuperable embarrassment seized Caroline when this demand was made. She could not, and did not, attempt to comply with it. Her silence was immediately covered by Mrs. Pryor, who proceeded to address sundry185 questions to Mr. Helstone regarding a family or two in the neighbourhood, with whose connections in the south she said she was acquainted. Shirley soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone's face. She did not renew her interrogations, but returning to her flowers, proceeded to choose a nosegay for the rector. She presented it to him as he took leave, and received the homage186 of a salute187 on the hand in return.
"Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she.
"Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone.—"Mrs. Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this churchwarden in perspective, this captain of yeomanry, this young squire177 of Briarfield, in a word. Don't let him exert himself too much; don't let him break his neck in hunting; especially, let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near the Hollow."
"I like a descent," said Shirley; "I like to clear it rapidly; and especially I like that romantic Hollow with all my heart."
"Romantic, with a mill in it?"
"Romantic with a mill in it. The old mill and the white cottage are each admirable in its way."
"And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar?"
"The counting-house is better than my bloom-coloured drawing-room. I adore the counting-house."
"The trade is to be thoroughly189 respected."
"And the tradesman is a hero? Good!"
"I am glad to hear you say so. I thought the tradesman looked heroic."
Mischief190, spirit, and glee sparkled all over her face as180 she thus bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally enjoyed the tilt191.
"Captain Keeldar, you have no mercantile blood in your veins. Why are you so fond of trade?"
"Because I am a mill-owner, of course. Half my income comes from the works in that Hollow."
"Don't enter into partnership—that's all."
"You've put it into my head! you've put it into my head!" she exclaimed, with a joyous192 laugh. "It will never get out. Thank you." And waving her hand, white as a lily and fine as a fairy's, she vanished within the porch, while the rector and his niece passed out through the arched gateway.
该作者的其它作品
《Jane Eyre简爱》
该作者的其它作品
《Jane Eyre简爱》
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1
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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12
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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13
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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16
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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17
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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19
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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21
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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22
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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24
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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26
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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28
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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29
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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32
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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34
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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35
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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38
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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40
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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41
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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42
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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43
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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44
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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45
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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46
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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48
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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49
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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50
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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52
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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53
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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54
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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55
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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56
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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57
trysts
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| n.约会，幽会( tryst的名词复数 )；幽会地点 | |
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58
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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60
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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61
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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62
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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63
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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64
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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65
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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66
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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67
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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70
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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71
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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72
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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73
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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75
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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76
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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77
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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78
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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79
frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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80
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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81
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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82
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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83
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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84
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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85
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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86
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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87
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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88
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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89
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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92
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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93
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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94
nostrum
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| n.秘方；妙策 | |
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95
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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96
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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100
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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101
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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102
tinting
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| 着色，染色（的阶段或过程） | |
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103
verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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105
lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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106
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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107
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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111
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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113
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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115
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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116
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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117
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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118
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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119
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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120
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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121
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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122
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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123
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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125
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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126
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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127
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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128
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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129
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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130
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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131
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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132
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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133
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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134
aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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135
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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136
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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137
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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138
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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139
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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140
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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141
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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142
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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143
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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146
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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148
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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149
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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150
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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151
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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158
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cognomen
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| n.姓；绰号 | |
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161
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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fins
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| [医]散热片；鱼鳍；飞边；鸭掌 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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170
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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171
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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172
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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174
tantalized
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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176
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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177
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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178
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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179
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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181
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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182
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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183
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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184
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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185
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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186
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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187
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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188
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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189
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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190
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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191
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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192
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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