“Does it annoy you, Caroline?”
“Very much; it vexes me even. People say you are miserly; and yet you are not, for you give liberally to the poor and to religious societies – though your gifts are conveyed so secretly and quietly that they are known to few except the receivers. But I will be your lady’s-maid myself. When I get a little stronger I will set to work, and you must be good, mamma, and do as I bid you.”
And Caroline, sitting near her mother, rearranged her muslin handkerchief and re-smoothed her hair.
“My own mamma,” then she went on, as if pleasing herself with the thought of their relationship, “who belongs to me, and to whom I belong! I am a rich girl now. I have something I can love well, and not be afraid of loving. Mamma, who gave you this little brooch? Let me unpin it and look at it.”
Mrs. Pryor, who usually shrank from meddling fingers and near approach, allowed the license complacently.
“Did papa give you this, mamma?”
“My sister gave it me – my only sister, Cary. Would that your Aunt Caroline had lived to see her niece!”
“Have you nothing of papa’s – no trinket, no gift of his?”
“I have one thing.”
“That you prize?”
“That I prize.”
“Valuable and pretty?”
“Invaluable and sweet to me.”
“Show it, mamma. Is it here or at Fieldhead?”
“It is talking to me now, leaning on me. Its arms are round me.”
“Ah, mamma, you mean your teasing daughter, who will never let you alone; who, when you go into your room, cannot help running to seek for you; who follows you upstairs and down, like a dog.”
“Whose features still give me such a strange thrill sometimes. I half fear your fair looks yet, child.”
“You don’t; you can’t. Mamma, I am sorry papa was not good. I do so wish he had been. Wickedness spoils and poisons all pleasant things. It kills love. If you and I thought each other wicked, we could not love each other, could we?”
“And if we could not trust each other, Cary?”
“How miserable we should be! Mother, before I knew you I had an apprehension that you were not good – that I could not esteem you. That dread damped my wish to see you. And now my heart is elate because I find you perfect – almost; kind, clever, nice. Your sole fault is that you are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma, put your work down; read to me. I like your southern accent; it is so pure, so soft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one’s voice here in the north has. My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a fine reader, mamma. Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with such propriety of expression or purity of accent.”
“I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but, really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read and preach I could not understand his broad northern tongue.”
“Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to speak roughly?”
“No. I almost wished you had, as I wished you had looked unpolished. Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke well, quite otherwise than your worthy uncle – correctly, gently, smoothly. You inherit the gift.”
“Poor papa! When he was so agreeable, why was he not good?”
“Why he was as he was – and happily of that you, child, can form no conception – I cannot tell. It is a deep mystery. The key is in the hands of his Maker. There I leave it.”
“Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away. Put down the sewing; I am an enemy to it. It cumbers your lap, and I want it for my head; it engages your eyes, and I want them for a book. Here is your favourite – Cowper.”
These importunities were the mother’s pleasure. If ever she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them repeated, and to enjoy her child’s soft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency. And then, when she yielded, Caroline would say archly, “You will spoil me, mamma. I always thought I should like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet.” So did Mrs. Pryor.
Chapter XXVI Old Copybooks
By the time the Fieldhead party returned to Briarfield Caroline was nearly well. Miss Keeldar, who had received news by post of her friend’s convalescence, hardly suffered an hour to elapse between her arrival at home and her first call at the rectory.
A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late flowers and russet autumn shrubs, when the garden wicket was heard to swing open, and Shirley’s well-known form passed the window. On her entrance her feelings were evinced in her own peculiar fashion. When deeply moved by serious fears or joys she was not garrulous. The strong emotion was rarely suffered to influence her tongue, and even her eye refused it more than a furtive and fitful conquest. She took Caroline in her arms, gave her one look, one kiss, then said, “You are better.”
And a minute after, “I see you are safe now; but take care. God grant your health may be called on to sustain no more shocks!”
She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey. In the midst of vivacious discourse her eye still wandered to Caroline. There spoke in its light a deep solicitude, some trouble, and some amaze.
“She may be better,” it said, “but how weak she still is! What peril she has come through!”
Suddenly her glance reverted to Mrs. Pryor. It pierced her through.
“When will my governess return to me?” she asked.
“May I tell her all?” demanded Caroline of her mother. Leave being signified by a gesture, Shirley was presently enlightened on what had happened in her absence.
“Very good,” was the cool comment—“very good! But it is no news to me.”
“What! did you know?”
“I guessed long since the whole business. I have heard somewhat of Mrs. Pryor’s history – not from herself, but from others. With every detail of Mr. James Helstone’s career and character I was acquainted. An afternoon’s sitting and conversation with Miss Mann had rendered me familiar therewith; also he is one of Mrs. Yorke’s warning examples – one of the blood-red lights she hangs out to scare young ladies from matrimony. I believe I should have been sceptical about the truth of the portrait traced by such fingers – both these ladies take a dark pleasure in offering to view the dark side of life – but I questioned Mr. Yorke on the subject, and he said, ‘Shirley, my woman, if you want to know aught about yond’ James Helstone, I can only say he was a man-tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous, courteous, cruel—’ Don’t cry, Cary; we’ll say no more about it.”
“I am not crying, Shirley; or if I am, it is nothing. Go on; you are no friend if you withhold from me the truth. I hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the truth.”
“Fortunately I have said pretty nearly all that I have to say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke’s words; for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those conventional subterfuges that are shabbier than lies.”
“But papa is dead; they should let him alone now.”
“They should; and we will let him alone. Cry away, Cary; it will do you good. It is wrong to check natural tears. Besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at this moment beams in your mother’s eye while she looks at you. Every drop blots out a sin. Weep! your tears have the virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked. Like Jordan, they can cleanse a leprous memory.”
“Madam,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, “did you think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your daughter together – marking your marvellous similarity in many points, observing (pardon me) your irrepressible emotions in the presence and still more in the absence of your child – and not form my own conjectures? I formed them, and they are literally correct. I shall begin to think myself shrewd.”