In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved that she partly also acted on system. “Louis,” she said, “would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern. The incapacity of the sovereign had developed the powers of the premier.”
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as bridesmaid at the approaching nuptials, but Fortune had destined her another part.
She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. This plant had received the refreshing shower; she was now resting a minute. Near the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone – a monkish relic – once, perhaps, the base of a cross. She mounted it, that she might better command the view. She had still the watering pot in one hand; with the other her pretty dress was held lightly aside, to avoid trickling drops. She gazed over the wall, along some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the sky; beyond a solitary thorn at the head of a solitary lane far off. She surveyed the dusk moors, where bonfires were kindling. The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright. Above them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a silver point – the star of love.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening – far otherwise; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn near; she received the touch unstartled.
“I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white her lustre is, compared with the deep red of the bonfires!”
The answer was a closer caress; and Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs. Pryor’s matron face, but up at a dark manly visage. She dropped her watering-pot and stepped down from the pedestal.
“I have been sitting with ‘mamma’ an hour,” said the intruder. “I have had a long conversation with her. Where, meantime, have you been?”
“To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neither say Yes nor No to any question put. She sits alone. I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalant. If you rouse her or scold her, she gives you a look, half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannot tell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake her.”
“Never mind them. They were cut out for each other. Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, if anyone can. She tries him, however. He has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but you see it all ends in victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?”
“For the repeal of your terrible law – the Orders you hate so much. You are pleased, are you not?”
“Yesterday evening at this time I was packing some books for a sea-voyage. They were the only possessions, except some clothes, seeds, roots, and tools, which I felt free to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you.”
“To leave me? To leave me?”
Her little fingers fastened on his arm; she spoke and looked affrighted.
“Not now – not now. Examine my face – yes, look at me well. Is the despair of parting legible thereon?”
She looked into an illuminated countenance, whose characters were all beaming, though the page itself was dusk. This face, potent in the majesty of its traits, shed down on her hope, fondness, delight.
“Will the repeal do you good – much good, immediate good?” she inquired.
“The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt; now I shall not give up business; now I shall not leave England; now I shall be no longer poor; now I can pay my debts; now all the cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands, and commissions given me for much more. This day lays for my fortunes a broad, firm foundation, on which, for the first time in my life, I can securely build.”
Caroline devoured his words; she held his hand in hers; she drew a long breath.
“You are saved? Your heavy difficulties are lifted?”
“They are lifted. I breathe. I can act.”
“At last! Oh, Providence is kind! Thank Him, Robert.”
“I do thank Providence.”
“And I also, for your sake!” She looked up devoutly.
“Now I can take more workmen, give better wages, lay wiser and more liberal plans, do some good, be less selfish. Now, Caroline, I can have a house – a home which I can truly call mine – and now”
He paused, for his deep voice was checked.
“And now,” he resumed—“now I can think of marriage, now I can seek a wife.”
This was no moment for her to speak. She did not speak.
“Will Caroline, who meekly hopes to be forgiven as she forgives – will she pardon all I have made her suffer, all that long pain I have wickedly caused her, all that sickness of body and mind she owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition, my sordid schemes? Will she let me expiate these things? Will she suffer me to prove that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can now love faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?”
His hand was in Caroline’s still; a gentle pressure answered him.
“Is Caroline mine?”
“Caroline is yours.”
“I will prize her. The sense of her value is here, in my heart; the necessity for her society is blended with my life. Not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves my pulses than of her happiness and well-being.”
“I love you, too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you.”
“Will you take faithful care of me? Faithful care! As if that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard gray stone! But she will care for me, in her way. These hands will be the gentle ministrants of every comfort I can taste. I know the being I seek to entwine with my own will bring me a solace, a charity, a purity, to which, of myself, I am a stranger.”
Suddenly Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.
“What flutters my dove?” asked Moore, as she nestled to and then uneasily shrank from him.
“Poor mamma! I am all mamma has. Must I leave her?”
“Do you know, I thought of that difficulty. I and ‘mamma’ have discussed it.”
“Tell me what you wish, what you would like, and I will consider if it is possible to consent. But I cannot desert her, even for you. I cannot break her heart, even for your sake.”
“She was faithful when I was false – was she not? I never came near your sickbed, and she watched it ceaselessly.”
“What must I do? Anything but leave her.”
“At my wish you never shall leave her.”
“She may live very near us?”
“With us – only she will have her own rooms and servant. For this she stipulates herself.”
“You know she has an income, that, with her habits, makes her quite independent?”
“She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me of somebody else.”
“She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip.”
“I know her, Cary. But if, instead of being the personification of reserve and discretion, she were something quite opposite, I should not fear her.”
“Yet she will be your mother-in-law?” The speaker gave an arch little nod. Moore smiled.
“Louis and I are not of the order of men who fear their mothers-in-law, Cary. Our foes never have been, nor will be, those of our own household. I doubt not my mother-in-law will make much of me.”