"I am deficient4 in self-confidence and decision," she said at last. "I always have been deficient in those qualities. Yet I think Miss Keeldar should have known my character well enough by this time to be aware that I always feel an even painful solicitude5 to do right, to act for the best. The unusual nature of the demand on my judgment6 puzzled me, especially following the alarms of the night. I could not venture to act promptly7 for another; but I trust no serious harm will result from my lapse8 of firmness."
A gentle knock was here heard at the door. It was half opened.
"Caroline, come here," said a low voice.
Miss Helstone went out. There stood Shirley in the gallery, looking contrite9, ashamed, sorry as any repentant10 child.
"How is Mrs. Pryor?" she asked.
"Rather out of spirits," said Caroline.
"I have behaved very shamefully11, very ungenerously, very ungratefully to her," said Shirley. "How insolent12 in me to turn on her thus for what, after all, was no fault—only an excess of conscientiousness13 on her part. But I regret my error most sincerely. Tell her so, and ask if she will forgive me."
Caroline discharged the errand with heartfelt pleasure. Mrs. Pryor rose, came to the door. She did not like scenes;320 she dreaded14 them as all timid people do. She said falteringly15, "Come in, my dear."
Shirley did come in with some impetuosity. She threw her arms round her governess, and while she kissed her heartily17 she said, "You know you must forgive me, Mrs. Pryor. I could not get on at all if there was a misunderstanding between you and me."
"I have nothing to forgive," was the reply. "We will pass it over now, if you please. The final result of the incident is that it proves more plainly than ever how unequal I am to certain crises."
And that was the painful feeling which would remain on Mrs. Pryor's mind. No effort of Shirley's or Caroline's could efface18 it thence. She could forgive her offending pupil, not her innocent self.
Miss Keeldar, doomed19 to be in constant request during the morning, was presently summoned downstairs again. The rector called first. A lively welcome and livelier reprimand were at his service. He expected both, and, being in high spirits, took them in equally good part.
In the course of his brief visit he quite forgot to ask after his niece; the riot, the rioters, the mill, the magistrates21, the heiress, absorbed all his thoughts to the exclusion22 of family ties. He alluded23 to the part himself and curate had taken in the defence of the Hollow.
"The vials of pharisaical wrath25 will be emptied on our heads for our share in this business," he said; "but I defy every calumniator26. I was there only to support the law, to play my part as a man and a Briton; which characters I deem quite compatible with those of the priest and Levite, in their highest sense. Your tenant27 Moore," he went on, "has won my approbation28. A cooler commander I would not wish to see, nor a more determined30. Besides, the man has shown sound judgment and good sense—first, in being thoroughly31 prepared for the event which has taken place; and subsequently, when his well-concerted plans had secured him success, in knowing how to use without abusing his victory. Some of the magistrates are now well frightened, and, like all cowards, show a tendency to be cruel. Moore restrains them with admirable prudence32. He has hitherto been very unpopular in the neighbourhood; but, mark my words, the tide of opinion will now take a turn in his favour. People will find out that they have not appreciated him, and will hasten to remedy their error; and he, when he321 perceives the public disposed to acknowledge his merits, will show a more gracious mien34 than that with which he has hitherto favoured us."
Mr. Helstone was about to add to this speech some half-jesting, half-serious warnings to Miss Keeldar on the subject of her rumoured35 partiality for her talented tenant, when a ring at the door, announcing another caller, checked his raillery; and as that other caller appeared in the form of a white-haired elderly gentleman, with a rather truculent36 countenance37 and disdainful eye—in short, our old acquaintance, and the rector's old enemy, Mr. Yorke—the priest and Levite seized his hat, and with the briefest of adieus to Miss Keeldar and the sternest of nods to her guest took an abrupt38 leave.
Mr. Yorke was in no mild mood, and in no measured terms did he express his opinion on the transaction of the night. Moore, the magistrates, the soldiers, the mob leaders, each and all came in for a share of his invectives; but he reserved his strongest epithets—and real racy Yorkshire Doric adjectives they were—for the benefit of the fighting parsons, the "sanguinary, demoniac" rector and curate. According to him, the cup of ecclesiastical guilt39 was now full indeed.
"The church," he said, "was in a bonny pickle40 now. It was time it came down when parsons took to swaggering amang soldiers, blazing away wi' bullet and gunpowder41, taking the lives of far honester men than themselves."
"What would Moore have done if nobody had helped him?" asked Shirley.
"Which means you would have left him by himself to face that mob. Good! He has plenty of courage, but the greatest amount of gallantry that ever garrisoned43 one human breast could scarce avail against two hundred."
"He had the soldiers, those poor slaves who hire out their own blood and spill other folk's for money."
"You abuse soldiers almost as much as you abuse clergymen. All who wear red coats are national refuse in your eyes, and all who wear black are national swindlers. Mr. Moore, according to you, did wrong to get military aid, and he did still worse to accept of any other aid. Your way of talking amounts to this: he should have abandoned his mill and his life to the rage of a set of misguided madmen, and Mr. Helstone and every other gentleman in the322 parish should have looked on, and seen the building razed44 and its owner slaughtered45, and never stirred a finger to save either."
"If Moore had behaved to his men from the beginning as a master ought to behave, they never would have entertained their present feelings towards him."
"Easy for you to talk," exclaimed Miss Keeldar, who was beginning to wax warm in her tenant's cause—"you, whose family have lived at Briarmains for six generations, to whose person the people have been accustomed for fifty years, who know all their ways, prejudices, and preferences—easy, indeed, for you to act so as to avoid offending them. But Mr. Moore came a stranger into the district; he came here poor and friendless, with nothing but his own energies to back him, nothing but his honour, his talent, and his industry to make his way for him. A monstrous46 crime indeed that, under such circumstances, he could not popularize his naturally grave, quiet manners all at once; could not be jocular, and free, and cordial with a strange peasantry, as you are with your fellow-townsmen! An unpardonable transgression47 that when he introduced improvements he did not go about the business in quite the most politic49 way, did not graduate his changes as delicately as a rich capitalist might have done! For errors of this sort is he to be the victim of mob outrage50? Is he to be denied even the privilege of defending himself? Are those who have the hearts of men in their breasts (and Mr. Helstone, say what you will of him, has such a heart) to be reviled51 like malefactors because they stand by him, because they venture to espouse52 the cause of one against two hundred?"
"Come, come now, be cool," said Mr. Yorke, smiling at the earnestness with which Shirley multiplied her rapid questions.
"Cool! Must I listen coolly to downright nonsense—to dangerous nonsense? No. I like you very well, Mr. Yorke, as you know, but I thoroughly dislike some of your principles. All that cant53—excuse me, but I repeat the word—all that cant about soldiers and parsons is most offensive in my ears. All ridiculous, irrational54 crying up of one class, whether the same be aristocrat55 or democrat—all howling down of another class, whether clerical or military—all exacting56 injustice57 to individuals, whether monarch58 or mendicant—is really sickening to me; all arraying of ranks against ranks, all party hatreds59, all323 tyrannies disguised as liberties, I reject and wash my hands of. You think you are a philanthropist; you think you are an advocate of liberty; but I will tell you this—Mr. Hall, the parson of Nunnely, is a better friend both of man and freedom than Hiram Yorke, the reformer of Briarfield."
From a man Mr. Yorke would not have borne this language very patiently, nor would he have endured it from some women; but he accounted Shirley both honest and pretty, and her plain-spoken ire amused him. Besides, he took a secret pleasure in hearing her defend her tenant, for we have already intimated he had Robert Moore's interest very much at heart. Moreover, if he wished to avenge61 himself for her severity, he knew the means lay in his power: a word, he believed, would suffice to tame and silence her, to cover her frank forehead with the rosy62 shadow of shame, and veil the glow of her eye under down-drooped lid and lash63.
"What more hast thou to say?" he inquired, as she paused, rather, it appeared, to take breath than because her subject or her zeal64 was exhausted65.
"Say, Mr. Yorke!" was the answer, the speaker meantime walking fast from wall to wall of the oak parlour—"say? I have a great deal to say, if I could get it out in lucid66 order, which I never can do. I have to say that your views, and those of most extreme politicians, are such as none but men in an irresponsible position can advocate; that they are purely67 opposition68 views, meant only to be talked about, and never intended to be acted on. Make you Prime Minister of England to-morrow, and you would have to abandon them. You abuse Moore for defending his mill. Had you been in Moore's place you could not with honour or sense have acted otherwise than he acted. You abuse Mr. Helstone for everything he does. Mr. Helstone has his faults; he sometimes does wrong, but oftener right. Were you ordained69 vicar of Briarfield, you would find it no easy task to sustain all the active schemes for the benefit of the parish planned and persevered70 in by your predecessor71. I wonder people cannot judge more fairly of each other and themselves. When I hear Messrs. Malone and Donne chatter72 about the authority of the church, the dignity and claims of the priesthood, the deference73 due to them as clergymen; when I hear the outbreaks of their small spite against Dissenters74; when I witness their324 silly, narrow jealousies75 and assumptions; when their palaver76 about forms, and traditions, and superstitions77 is sounding in my ear; when I behold78 their insolent carriage to the poor, their often base servility to the rich—I think the Establishment is indeed in a poor way, and both she and her sons appear in the utmost need of reformation. Turning away distressed79 from minster tower and village spire—ay, as distressed as a churchwarden who feels the exigence of white-wash and has not wherewithal to purchase lime—I recall your senseless sarcasms80 on the 'fat bishops,' the 'pampered81 parsons,' 'old mother church,' etc. I remember your strictures on all who differ from you, your sweeping82 condemnation83 of classes and individuals, without the slightest allowance made for circumstances or temptations; and then, Mr. Yorke, doubt clutches my inmost heart as to whether men exist clement84, reasonable, and just enough to be entrusted85 with the task of reform. I don't believe you are of the number."
"You have an ill opinion of me, Miss Shirley. You never told me so much of your mind before."
"I never had an opening. But I have sat on Jessy's stool by your chair in the back-parlour at Briarmains, for evenings together, listening excitedly to your talk, half admiring what you said, and half rebelling against it. I think you a fine old Yorkshireman, sir. I am proud to have been born in the same county and parish as yourself. Truthful86, upright, independent you are, as a rock based below seas; but also you are harsh, rude, narrow, and merciless."
"And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions? A prouder, a higher-minded man than yourself does not exist. You find it easy to speak comfortably to your inferiors; you are too haughty88, too ambitious, too jealous to be civil to those above you. But you are all alike. Helstone also is proud and prejudiced. Moore, though juster and more considerate than either you or the rector, is still haughty, stern, and, in a public sense, selfish. It is well there are such men as Mr. Hall to be found occasionally—men of large and kind hearts, who can love their whole race, who can forgive others for being richer, more prosperous, or more powerful than they are. Such men may have less originality89, less force of character than you, but they are better friends to mankind."
325"And when is it to be?" said Mr. Yorke, now rising.
"When is what to be?"
"The wedding."
"Whose wedding?"
"Only that of Robert Gérard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Cottage, with Miss Keeldar, daughter and heiress of the late Charles Cave Keeldar of Fieldhead Hall."
Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour. But the light in her eye was not faltering16; it shone steadily—yes, it burned deeply.
"That is your revenge," she said slowly; then added, "Would it be a bad match, unworthy of the late Charles Cave Keeldar's representative?"
"My lass, Moore is a gentleman; his blood is pure and ancient as mine or thine."
"And we two set store by ancient blood? We have family pride, though one of us at least is a republican?"
Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute, but his eye confessed the impeachment90. Yes, he had family pride; you saw it in his whole bearing.
"Moore is a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head with glad grace. She checked herself. Words seemed crowding to her tongue. She would not give them utterance91; but her look spoke60 much at the moment. What, Yorke tried to read, but could not. The language was there, visible, but untranslatable—a poem, a fervid92 lyric93, in an unknown tongue. It was not a plain story, however, no simple gush94 of feeling, no ordinary love-confession—that was obvious. It was something other, deeper, more intricate than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had not struck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed. She held him at fault, baffled, puzzled. She enjoyed the moment, not he.
"And if Moore is a gentleman, you can be only a lady; therefore——"
"Therefore there would be no inequality in our union."
"None."
"Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me away when I relinquish95 the name of Keeldar for that of Moore?"
Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could not divine what her look signified—whether she spoke in earnest or in jest. There were purpose and feeling, banter96 and scoff97, playing, mingled98, on her mobile lineaments.
326"I don't understand thee," he said, turning away.
She laughed. "Take courage, sir; you are not singular in your ignorance. But I suppose if Moore understands me that will do, will it not?"
"Moore may settle his own matters henceforward for me; I'll neither meddle99 nor make with them further."
A new thought crossed her. Her countenance changed magically. With a sudden darkening of the eye and austere100 fixing of the features she demanded, "Have you been asked to interfere101? Are you questioning me as another's proxy102?"
"The Lord save us! Whoever weds103 thee must look about him! Keep all your questions for Robert; I'll answer no more on 'em. Good-day, lassie!"
The day being fine, or at least fair—for soft clouds curtained the sun, and a dim but not chill or waterish haze104 slept blue on the hills—Caroline, while Shirley was engaged with her callers, had persuaded Mrs. Pryor to assume her bonnet105 and summer shawl, and to take a walk with her up towards the narrow end of the Hollow.
Here the opposing sides of the glen, approaching each other and becoming clothed with brushwood and stunted106 oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the bottom of which ran the mill-stream, in broken, unquiet course, struggling with many stones, chafing107 against rugged108 banks, fretting109 with gnarled tree-roots, foaming111, gurgling, battling as it went. Here, when you had wandered half a mile from the mill, you found a sense of deep solitude112—found it in the shade of unmolested trees, received it in the singing of many birds, for which that shade made a home. This was no trodden way. The freshness of the wood flowers attested113 that foot of man seldom pressed them; the abounding114 wild roses looked as if they budded, bloomed, and faded under the watch of solitude, as if in a sultan's harem. Here you saw the sweet azure115 of blue-bells, and recognized in pearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, a humble116 type of some starlit spot in space.
Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk. She ever shunned117 high-roads, and sought byways and lonely lanes. One companion she preferred to total solitude, for in solitude she was nervous; a vague fear of annoying encounters broke the enjoyment118 of quite lonely rambles119. But she feared nothing with Caroline. When once she got away from human327 habitations, and entered the still demesne120 of nature accompanied by this one youthful friend, a propitious121 change seemed to steal over her mind and beam in her countenance. When with Caroline—and Caroline only—her heart, you would have said, shook off a burden, her brow put aside a veil, her spirits too escaped from a restraint. With her she was cheerful; with her, at times, she was tender; to her she would impart her knowledge, reveal glimpses of her experience, give her opportunities for guessing what life she had lived, what cultivation122 her mind had received, of what calibre was her intelligence, how and where her feelings were vulnerable.
To-day, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor talked to her companion about the various birds singing in the trees, discriminated123 their species, and said something about their habits and peculiarities125. English natural history seemed familiar to her. All the wild flowers round their path were recognized by her; tiny plants springing near stones and peeping out of chinks in old walls—plants such as Caroline had scarcely noticed before—received a name and an intimation of their properties. It appeared that she had minutely studied the botany of English fields and woods. Having reached the head of the ravine, they sat down together on a ledge33 of gray and mossy rock jutting126 from the base of a steep green hill which towered above them. She looked round her, and spoke of the neighbourhood as she had once before seen it long ago. She alluded to its changes, and compared its aspect with that of other parts of England, revealing in quiet, unconscious touches of description a sense of the picturesque127, an appreciation128 of the beautiful or commonplace, a power of comparing the wild with the cultured, the grand with the tame, that gave to her discourse129 a graphic130 charm as pleasant as it was unpretending.
The sort of reverent131 pleasure with which Caroline listened—so sincere, so quiet, yet so evident—stirred the elder lady's faculties132 to gentle animation133. Rarely, probably, had she, with her chill, repellent outside, her diffident mien, and incommunicative habits, known what it was to excite in one whom she herself could love feelings of earnest affection and admiring esteem134. Delightful135, doubtless, was the consciousness that a young girl towards whom it seemed, judging by the moved expression of her eyes and features, her heart turned with almost a fond impulse, looked up to328 her as an instructor136, and clung to her as a friend. With a somewhat more marked accent of interest than she often permitted herself to use, she said, as she bent137 towards her youthful companion, and put aside from her forehead a pale brown curl which had strayed from the confining comb, "I do hope this sweet air blowing from the hill will do you good, my dear Caroline. I wish I could see something more of colour in these cheeks; but perhaps you were never florid?"
"I had red cheeks once," returned Miss Helstone, smiling. "I remember a year—two years ago—when I used to look in the glass, I saw a different face there to what I see now—rounder and rosier138. But when we are young," added the girl of eighteen, "our minds are careless and our lives easy."
"Do you," continued Mrs. Pryor, mastering by an effort that tyrant139 timidity which made it difficult for her, even under present circumstances, to attempt the scrutiny140 of another's heart—"do you, at your age, fret110 yourself with cares for the future? Believe me, you had better not. Let the morrow take thought for the things of itself."
"True, dear madam. It is not over the future I pine. The evil of the day is sometimes oppressive—too oppressive—and I long to escape it."
"That is—the evil of the day—that is—your uncle perhaps is not—you find it difficult to understand—he does not appreciate——"
Mrs. Pryor could not complete her broken sentences; she could not manage to put the question whether Mr. Helstone was too harsh with his niece. But Caroline comprehended.
"Oh, that is nothing," she replied. "My uncle and I get on very well. We never quarrel—I don't call him harsh—he never scolds me. Sometimes I wish somebody in the world loved me, but I cannot say that I particularly wish him to have more affection for me than he has. As a child, I should perhaps have felt the want of attention, only the servants were very kind to me; but when people are long indifferent to us, we grow indifferent to their indifference141. It is my uncle's way not to care for women and girls, unless they be ladies that he meets in company. He could not alter, and I have no wish that he should alter, as far as I am concerned. I believe it would merely annoy and frighten me were he to be affectionate towards me now. But you know, Mrs. Pryor, it is scarcely living to measure329 time as I do at the rectory. The hours pass, and I get them over somehow, but I do not live. I endure existence, but I rarely enjoy it. Since Miss Keeldar and you came I have been—I was going to say happier, but that would be untrue." She paused.
"How untrue? You are fond of Miss Keeldar, are you not, my dear?"
"Very fond of Shirley. I both like and admire her. But I am painfully circumstanced. For a reason I cannot explain I want to go away from this place, and to forget it."
"You told me before you wished to be a governess; but, my dear, if you remember, I did not encourage the idea. I have been a governess myself great part of my life. In Miss Keeldar's acquaintance I esteem myself most fortunate. Her talents and her really sweet disposition143 have rendered my office easy to me; but when I was young, before I married, my trials were severe, poignant144. I should not like a—— I should not like you to endure similar ones. It was my lot to enter a family of considerable pretensions145 to good birth and mental superiority, and the members of which also believed that 'on them was perceptible' an unusual endowment of the 'Christian146 graces;' that all their hearts were regenerate147, and their spirits in a peculiar124 state of discipline. I was early given to understand that 'as I was not their equal,' so I could not expect 'to have their sympathy.' It was in no sort concealed148 from me that I was held a 'burden and a restraint in society.' The gentlemen, I found, regarded me as a 'tabooed woman,' to whom 'they were interdicted149 from granting the usual privileges of the sex,' and yet 'who annoyed them by frequently crossing their path.' The ladies too made it plain that they thought me 'a bore.' The servants, it was signified, 'detested150 me;' why, I could never clearly comprehend. My pupils, I was told, 'however much they might love me, and how deep soever the interest I might take in them, could not be my friends.' It was intimated that I must 'live alone, and never transgress48 the invisible but rigid151 line which established the difference between me and my employers.' My life in this house was sedentary, solitary152, constrained153, joyless, toilsome. The dreadful crushing of the animal spirits, the ever-prevailing sense of friendlessness and homelessness consequent on this state of things began ere long to produce mortal effects on my constitution. I sickened. The lady of the house told me coolly I was the330 victim of 'wounded vanity.' She hinted that if I did not make an effort to quell154 my 'ungodly discontent,' to cease 'murmuring against God's appointment,' and to cultivate the profound humility155 befitting my station, my mind would very likely 'go to pieces' on the rock that wrecked156 most of my sisterhood—morbid self-esteem—and that I should die an inmate157 of a lunatic asylum158.
"I said nothing to Mrs. Hardman—it would have been useless; but to her eldest159 daughter I one day dropped a few observations, which were answered thus. There were hardships, she allowed, in the position of a governess. 'Doubtless they had their trials; but,' she averred160, with a manner it makes me smile now to recall—'but it must be so. She' (Miss H.) 'had neither view, hope, nor wish to see these things remedied; for in the inherent constitution of English habits, feelings, and prejudices there was no possibility that they should be. Governesses,' she observed, 'must ever be kept in a sort of isolation161. It is the only means of maintaining that distance which the reserve of English manners and the decorum of English families exact.'
"I remember I sighed as Miss Hardman quitted my bedside. She caught the sound, and turning, said severely162, 'I fear, Miss Grey, you have inherited in fullest measure the worst sin of our fallen nature—the sin of pride. You are proud, and therefore you are ungrateful too. Mamma pays you a handsome salary, and if you had average sense you would thankfully put up with much that is fatiguing163 to do and irksome to bear, since it is so well made worth your while.'
"Miss Hardman, my love, was a very strong-minded young lady, of most distinguished164 talents. The aristocracy are decidedly a very superior class, you know, both physically165, and morally, and mentally; as a high Tory I acknowledge that. I could not describe the dignity of her voice and mien as she addressed me thus; still, I fear she was selfish, my dear. I would never wish to speak ill of my superiors in rank, but I think she was a little selfish."
"I remember," continued Mrs. Pryor, after a pause, "another of Miss H.'s observations, which she would utter with quite a grand air. 'We,' she would say—'we need the imprudences, extravagances, mistakes, and crimes of a certain number of fathers to sow the seed from which we reap the harvest of governesses. The daughters of trades-people, however well educated, must necessarily be underbred,331 and as such unfit to be inmates166 of our dwellings167, or guardians168 of our children's minds and persons. We shall ever prefer to place those about OUR offspring who have been born and bred with somewhat of the same refinement169 as ourselves.'"
"Miss Hardman must have thought herself something better than her fellow-creatures, ma'am, since she held that their calamities170, and even crimes, were necessary to minister to her convenience. You say she was religious. Her religion must have been that of the Pharisee who thanked God that he was not as other men are, nor even as that publican."
"My dear, we will not discuss the point. I should be the last person to wish to instil171 into your mind any feeling of dissatisfaction with your lot in life, or any sentiment of envy or insubordination towards your superiors. Implicit172 submission173 to authorities, scrupulous174 deference to our betters (under which term I, of course, include the higher classes of society), are, in my opinion, indispensable to the well-being175 of every community. All I mean to say, my dear, is that you had better not attempt to be a governess, as the duties of the position would be too severe for your constitution. Not one word of disrespect would I breathe towards either Mrs. or Miss Hardman; only, recalling my own experience, I cannot but feel that, were you to fall under auspices176 such as theirs, you would contend a while courageously177 with your doom20, then you would pine and grow too weak for your work; you would come home—if you still had a home—broken down. Those languishing178 years would follow of which none but the invalid179 and her immediate180 friends feel the heart-sickness and know the burden. Consumption or decline would close the chapter. Such is the history of many a life. I would not have it yours. My dear, we will now walk about a little, if you please."
"My dear," ere long again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort of timid, embarrassed abruptness182 marking her manner as she spoke, "the young, especially those to whom nature has been favourable183, often—frequently—anticipate—look forward to—to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes."
And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with promptitude, showing a great deal more self-possession332 and courage than herself on the formidable topic now broached184.
"They do, and naturally," she replied, with a calm emphasis that startled Mrs. Pryor. "They look forward to marriage with some one they love as the brightest, the only bright destiny that can await them. Are they wrong?"
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her hands; and again she paused. Caroline turned a searching, an eager eye on the face of her friend: that face was much agitated185. "My dear," she murmured, "life is an illusion."
"But not love! Love is real—the most real, the most lasting186, the sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know."
"My dear, it is very bitter. It is said to be strong—strong as death! Most of the cheats of existence are strong. As to their sweetness, nothing is so transitory; its date is a moment, the twinkling of an eye. The sting remains187 for ever. It may perish with the dawn of eternity188, but it tortures through time into its deepest night."
"Mutual love! My dear, romances are pernicious. You do not read them, I hope?"
"Sometimes—whenever I can get them, indeed. But romance-writers might know nothing of love, judging by the way in which they treat of it."
"Nothing whatever, my dear," assented190 Mrs. Pryor eagerly, "nor of marriage; and the false pictures they give of those subjects cannot be too strongly condemned191. They are not like reality. They show you only the green, tempting192 surface of the marsh193, and give not one faithful or truthful hint of the slough194 underneath195."
"But it is not always slough," objected Caroline. "There are happy marriages. Where affection is reciprocal and sincere, and minds are harmonious196, marriage must be happy."
"It is never wholly happy. Two people can never literally197 be as one. There is, perhaps, a possibility of content under peculiar circumstances, such as are seldom combined; but it is as well not to run the risk—you may make fatal mistakes. Be satisfied, my dear. Let all the single be satisfied with their freedom."
"You echo my uncle's words!" exclaimed Caroline, in a tone of dismay. "You speak like Mrs. Yorke in her most333 gloomy moments, like Miss Mann when she is most sourly and hypochondriacally disposed. This is terrible!"
"No, it is only true. O child, you have only lived the pleasant morning time of life; the hot, weary noon, the sad evening, the sunless night, are yet to come for you. Mr. Helstone, you say, talks as I talk; and I wonder how Mrs. Matthewson Helstone would have talked had she been living. She died! she died!"
"What of them?"
"Did I never tell you that they were separated?"
"I have heard it."
"You see all facts go to prove what I say."
"In this case there ought to be no such thing as marriage."
"There ought, my dear, were it only to prove that this life is a mere142 state of probation29, wherein neither rest nor recompense is to be vouchsafed200."
"But your own marriage, Mrs. Pryor?"
Mrs. Pryor shrank and shuddered201 as if a rude finger had pressed a naked nerve. Caroline felt she had touched what would not bear the slightest contact.
"My marriage was unhappy," said the lady, summoning courage at last; "but yet——" She hesitated.
"But yet," suggested Caroline, "not immitigably wretched?"
"Not in its results, at least. No," she added, in a softer tone; "God mingles202 something of the balm of mercy even in vials of the most corrosive203 woe204. He can so turn events that from the very same blind, rash act whence sprang the curse of half our life may flow the blessing205 of the remainder. Then I am of a peculiar disposition—I own that—far from facile, without address, in some points eccentric. I ought never to have married. Mine is not the nature easily to find a duplicate or likely to assimilate with a contrast. I was quite aware of my own ineligibility206; and if I had not been so miserable as a governess, I never should have married; and then——"
Caroline's eyes asked her to proceed. They entreated207 her to break the thick cloud of despair which her previous words had seemed to spread over life.
"And then, my dear, Mr.—that is, the gentleman I married—was, perhaps, rather an exceptional than an334 average character. I hope, at least, the experience of few has been such as mine was, or that few have felt their sufferings as I felt mine. They nearly shook my mind; relief was so hopeless, redress208 so unattainable. But, my dear, I do not wish to dishearten; I only wish to warn you, and to prove that the single should not be too anxious to change their state, as they may change for the worse."
"Thank you, my dear madam. I quite understand your kind intentions, but there is no fear of my falling into the error to which you allude24. I, at least, have no thoughts of marriage, and for that reason I want to make myself a position by some other means."
"My dear, listen to me. On what I am going to say I have carefully deliberated, having, indeed, revolved209 the subject in my thoughts ever since you first mentioned your wish to obtain a situation. You know I at present reside with Miss Keeldar in the capacity of companion. Should she marry (and that she will marry ere long many circumstances induce me to conclude), I shall cease to be necessary to her in that capacity. I must tell you that I possess a small independency, arising partly from my own savings210, and partly from a legacy211 left me some years since. Whenever I leave Fieldhead I shall take a house of my own. I could not endure to live in solitude. I have no relations whom I care to invite to close intimacy212; for, as you must have observed, and as I have already avowed213, my habits and tastes have their peculiarities. To you, my dear, I need not say I am attached; with you I am happier than I have ever been with any living thing" (this was said with marked emphasis). "Your society I should esteem a very dear privilege—an inestimable privilege, a comfort, a blessing. You shall come to me, then. Caroline, do you refuse me? I hope you can love me?"
And with these two abrupt questions she stopped.
"Indeed, I do love you," was the reply. "I should like to live with you. But you are too kind."
"All I have," went on Mrs. Pryor, "I would leave to you. You should be provided for. But never again say I am too kind. You pierce my heart, child!"
"But, my dear madam—this generosity—I have no claim——"
"Hush214! you must not talk about it. There are some things we cannot bear to hear. Oh! it is late to begin, but I may yet live a few years. I can never wipe out the335 past, but perhaps a brief space in the future may yet be mine."
Mrs. Pryor seemed deeply agitated. Large tears trembled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Caroline kissed her, in her gentle, caressing215 way, saying softly, "I love you dearly. Don't cry."
But the lady's whole frame seemed shaken. She sat down, bent her head to her knee, and wept aloud. Nothing could console her till the inward storm had had its way. At last the agony subsided216 of itself.
"Poor thing!" she murmured, returning Caroline's kiss, "poor lonely lamb! But come," she added abruptly—"come; we must go home."
For a short distance Mrs. Pryor walked very fast. By degrees, however, she calmed down to her wonted manner, fell into her usual characteristic pace—a peculiar one, like all her movements—and by the time they reached Fieldhead she had re-entered into herself. The outside was, as usual, still and shy.
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1
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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5
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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6
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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7
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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14
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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15
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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17
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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18
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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19
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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20
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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21
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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22
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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23
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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25
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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26
calumniator
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| n.中伤者，诽谤者 | |
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27
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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28
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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29
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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30
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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31
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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32
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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33
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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34
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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35
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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36
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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37
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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38
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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39
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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40
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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41
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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42
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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43
garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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44
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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47
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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48
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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49
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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50
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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51
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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53
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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54
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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55
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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56
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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57
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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58
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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59
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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60
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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61
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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62
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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63
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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64
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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65
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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66
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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67
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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68
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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69
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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70
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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72
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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73
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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74
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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75
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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76
palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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77
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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78
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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79
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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80
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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81
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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83
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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84
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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85
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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87
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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88
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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89
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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90
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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91
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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92
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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93
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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94
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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95
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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96
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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97
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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98
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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99
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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100
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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101
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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102
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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103
weds
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| v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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105
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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106
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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107
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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108
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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109
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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110
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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111
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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112
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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113
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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114
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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115
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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116
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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117
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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119
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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120
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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121
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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122
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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123
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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124
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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125
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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126
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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127
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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128
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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129
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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130
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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131
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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132
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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133
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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134
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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135
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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136
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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137
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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138
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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139
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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140
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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141
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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142
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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143
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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144
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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145
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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146
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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147
regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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148
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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149
interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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150
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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152
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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153
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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154
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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155
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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156
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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157
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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158
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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159
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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160
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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161
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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162
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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163
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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164
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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165
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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166
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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167
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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168
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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169
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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170
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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171
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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172
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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173
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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174
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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175
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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176
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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177
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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178
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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179
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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180
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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181
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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182
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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183
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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184
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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185
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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186
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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187
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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188
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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189
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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190
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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192
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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193
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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194
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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195
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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196
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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197
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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198
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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199
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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200
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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201
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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202
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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203
corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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204
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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205
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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206
ineligibility
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| n.无被选资格，不适任 | |
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207
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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208
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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209
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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210
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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211
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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212
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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213
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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214
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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215
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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216
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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