"I'll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on myself till I staggered again. But that comparison about sister and brother is all nonsense. She is too rich and proud to entertain fraternal sentiments for me."

"That is nonsense. She is too rich and proud to see me as a brother."


"You don't know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy now (I had other ideas formerly) that you cannot know her. You and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly to understand each other."

"You don't know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy that you cannot know her. You and she will never thoroughly understand each other."

Chapter 35: WHEREIN MATTERS MAKE SOME PROGRESS, BUT NOT MUCH


"It may be so. I esteem her, I admire her; and yet my impressions concerning her are harsh--perhaps uncharitable. I believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love----"

"Maybe. I admire her; but I believe she is incapable of love-"


"That she will never marry. I imagine her jealous of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of sharing her property."

"And that she will never marry. She will not relinquish her power or her pride."


"She did hurt it; though I had not an emotion of tenderness, nor a spark of passion for her."

"She did; though I had not a spark of tenderness or passion for her."


"Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her."


"And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has fine lips, scarlet and round as ripe cherries; or, if I did wish it, it was the mere desire of the eye."


"I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth. The grapes or the cherries are sour--'hung too high.'"


"She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair. I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them, or only feel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly tempted by the mere gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is--great, good, disinterested, and then so pure!"

"She is very pretty. I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them, or only in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was tempted by the gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is!"


"But not perfect. He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no more about it."

"He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no more about it.


"And shall we think no more about it, Cary? Shall we not despise him in our heart--gentle but just, compassionate but upright?"


"Never! We will remember that with what measure we mete it shall be measured unto us, and so we will give no scorn, only affection."

We will remember that we too shall be judged, and so we will give no scorn, only affection."


"Which won't satisfy, I warn you of that. Something besides affection--something far stronger, sweeter, warmer--will be demanded one day. Is it there to give?"

"Which won't satisfy me, I warn you. Something besides affection - something far stronger, sweeter, warmer - will be demanded one day. Is it there to give?"


"Be calm, Lina," said Moore soothingly. "I have no intention, because I have no right, to perturb your mind now, nor for months to come. Don't look as if you would leave me. We will make no more agitating allusions; we will resume our gossip. Do not tremble; look me in the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am--more pitiable than formidable."

"Be calm, Lina," said Moore soothingly. "I have no right or intention to perturb your mind for months to come. Do not tremble; look me in the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am - more pitiable than formidable."


She looked shyly. "There is something formidable still, pale as you are," she said, as her eye fell under his.

She looked shyly. "There is something formidable still, pale as you are," she said.


"To return to Shirley," pursued Moore: "is it your opinion that she is ever likely to marry?"


"Platonically - theoretically - all humbug!"


"I cannot affirm that she said so. No such confession as 'I love this man or that' passed her lips."


"But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood. Her voice alone was sufficient testimony. Having wrung from her an opinion on your character, I demanded a second opinion of--another person about whom I had my conjectures, though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectures in the world. I would _make_ her speak. I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her queer provoking way, and at last out it came. The voice, I say, was enough; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its tones. There was no confession, no confidence, in the matter. To these things she cannot condescend; but I am sure that man's happiness is dear to her as her own life."

; but the feeling showed itself in spite of her. She spoke of one man in a way that could not be misunderstood. Having asked her opinion of you, I demanded a second opinion of - another person about whom I had made puzzled conjectures. I was determined to make her speak, and at last out it came, in a whisper, and yet with such soft vehemence. I am sure that man's happiness is as dear to her as her own life."


"I charged her with the fact. She did not deny, she did not avow, but looked at me. I saw her eyes by the snow-gleam. It was quite enough. I triumphed over her mercilessly."

"I charged her with being in love. She just looked at me. It was quite enough.


"What right had _you_ to triumph? Do you mean to say _you_ are fancy free?"


"Whatever _I_ am, Shirley is a bondswoman. Lioness, she has found her captor. Mistress she may be of all round her, but her own mistress she is not."


"So you exulted at recognizing a fellow-slave in one so fair and imperial?"


"I did; Robert, you say right, in one so fair and imperial."


"I confess nothing; but I say that haughty Shirley is no more free than was Hagar."


"And who, pray, is the Abraham, the hero of a patriarch who has achieved such a conquest?"

"And who, pray, is the hero who has achieved such a conquest?"


"You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I will make you change your note before I have done with you."

"You still speak cynically; but I will make you change your note before I have done."


"We will see that. Can she marry this Cupidon?"


"Cupidon! he is just about as much a Cupidon as you are a Cyclops."


"Then it is some person unworthy of her. I don't know a soul in Briarfield parish her equal."

"I don't know a soul in Briarfield parish her equal.


"Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion, and will plunge into some absurdity, after all."


"Do _you_ approve the choice?" asked Moore.

"Do you approve the choice?" asked Moore.


"Then I _am_ puzzled; for the head which owns this bounteous fall of hazel curls is an excellent little thinking machine, most accurate in its working. It boasts a correct, steady judgment, inherited from 'mamma,' I suppose."

"Then I am puzzled; for you have a correct, steady judgment, inherited from 'mamma,' I suppose."


"And I _quite_ approve, and mamma was charmed."

"I quite approve, and mamma was charmed."


"'Mamma' charmed--Mrs. Pryor! It can't be romantic, then?"

"Mrs. Pryor charmed! It can't be romantic, then?"


"It _is_ romantic, but it is also right."


"Tell me, Cary--tell me out of pity; I am too weak to be tantalized."

"Tell me, Cary; I am too weak to be tantalized."


"You shall be tantalized--it will do you no harm; you are not so weak as you pretend."

"You shall be tantalized - it will do you no harm; you are not so weak as you pretend."


"I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling on the floor at your feet."


"You had better not. I shall decline to help you up."


"And worshipping you downright. My mother was a Roman Catholic. You look like the loveliest of her pictures of the Virgin. I think I will embrace her faith and kneel and adore."

and worshipping you downright. My mother was a Roman Catholic. You look like the loveliest of her pictures of the Virgin. I think I will embrace her faith and kneel and adore."


"Robert, Robert, sit still; don't be absurd. I will go to Hortense if you commit extravagances."

"Robert, sit still; don't be absurd, or I will go to Hortense."


"You have stolen my senses. Just now nothing will come into my mind but _les litanies de la sainte Virge. Rose cleste, reine des anges_!"

"You have stolen my senses. Heavenly rose, queen of angels!"


"_Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or_--is not that the jargon? Well, sit down quietly, and guess your riddle."


"But 'mamma' charmed--there's the puzzle."


"I'll tell you what mamma said when I told her. 'Depend upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Keeldar's life.'"

I'll tell you what mamma said: 'Depend upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Keeldar's life.'"


"I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. She is going to be your aunt."

"I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. Shirley is going to be your aunt."


"I'll tell my uncle; I'll tell Shirley!" cried Caroline, laughing gleefully. "Guess again, Robert; your blunders are charming."

"I'll tell my uncle!" cried Caroline, laughing gleefully. "Guess again, Robert."


"Indeed, no; he is mine, if you please."


"Yours! Ay, the whole generation of women in Briarfield seem to have made an idol of that priest. I wonder why; he is bald, sand-blind, gray-haired."

"Yours! Ay, all the women in Briarfield seem to idolise that priest. I wonder why; he is bald and grey-haired.


"Fanny will be here to fetch me before you have solved the riddle, if you don't make haste."


"I'll guess no more--I am tired; and then I don't care. Miss Keeldar may marry _le grand Turc_ for me."

I'll guess no more - I am tired. Miss Keeldar may marry the Grand Turk for all I care."


"That you must, and quickly. Here comes Hortense; come near, a little nearer, my own Lina. I care for the whisper more than the words."


She whispered. Robert gave a start, a flash of the eye, a brief laugh. Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind, with information that Fanny was come. The hour of converse was over.

She whispered. Robert gave a start, and a brief laugh. Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind. The hour of converse was over.


Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered sentences. He was waiting at the foot of the staircase as Caroline descended after putting on her shawl.

Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered sentences as Caroline put on her shawl before departing.


"Must I call Shirley a noble creature now?" he asked.


"If you wish to speak the truth, certainly."


"Forgive her? Naughty Robert! Was she in the wrong, or were you?"


"Must I at length love her downright, Cary?"


Caroline looked keenly up, and made a movement towards him, something between the loving and the petulant.


"Only give the word, and I'll try to obey you."


"Indeed, you must not love her; the bare idea is perverse."

"Indeed, you must not; the idea is perverse."


"But then she is handsome, peculiarly handsome. Hers is a beauty that grows on you. You think her but graceful when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful when you have known her for a year."

"But she is handsome. Hers is a beauty that grows on you. You think her but graceful when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful when you have known her for a year."


"It is not you who are to say these things. Now, Robert, be good."


"O Cary, I have no love to give. Were the goddess of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances. There is no heart which I can call mine in this breast."

"O Cary, I have no love to give. Were the goddess of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances. I have no heart which I can call mine."


"So much the better; you are a great deal safer without. Good-night."


"Why must you always go, Lina, at the very instant when I most want you to stay?"


"Because you most wish to retain when you are most certain to lose."


"Listen; one other word. Take care of your own heart--do you hear me?"

One more word. Take care of your own heart - do you hear me?"


"I am not convinced of that. The Platonic parson, for instance."

"I am not convinced of that. The parson, for


"Cyril Hall. I owe more than one twinge of jealousy to that quarter."


"As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann. She showed me the other day a plant you had given her.--Fanny, I am ready."

"As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann. She showed me the other day a plant you had given her. Goodbye, Robert."


Time wore on, and spring matured. The surface of England began to look pleasant: her fields grew green, her hills fresh, her gardens blooming; but at heart she was no better. Still her poor were wretched, still their employers were harassed. Commerce, in some of its branches, seemed threatened with paralysis, for the war continued; England's blood was shed and her wealth lavished--all, it seemed, to attain most inadequate ends. Some tidings there were indeed occasionally of successes in the Peninsula, but these came in slowly; long intervals occurred between, in which no note was heard but the insolent self-felicitations of Bonaparte on his continued triumphs. Those who suffered from the results of the war felt this tedious, and, as they thought, hopeless struggle against what their fears or their interests taught them to regard as an invincible power, most insufferable. They demanded peace on any terms. Men like Yorke and Moore--and there were thousands whom the war placed where it placed them, shuddering on the verge of bankruptcy--insisted on peace with the energy of desperation.

Spring matured, and the surface of England began to look pleasant: her fields grew green, her gardens bloomed; but at heart she was no better. Still her poor were wretched, still their employers were harassed. Commerce seemed threatened with paralysis, for the war continued; England's blood was shed and her wealth lavished, it seemed, in vain. There were occasionally tidings of successes in the Peninsula, but these came in slowly. Men like Yorke and Moore, shuddering on the verge of bankruptcy, insisted on peace with the energy of desperation.


They held meetings, they made speeches, they got up petitions to extort this boon; on what terms it was made they cared not.


All men, taken singly, are more or less selfish; and taken in bodies, they are intensely so. The British merchant is no exception to this rule: the mercantile classes illustrate it strikingly. These classes certainly think too exclusively of making money; they are too oblivious of every national consideration but that of extending England's--that is, their own--commerce. Chivalrous feeling, disinterestedness, pride in honour, is too dead in their hearts. A land ruled by them alone would too often make ignominious submission--not at all from the motives Christ teaches, but rather from those Mammon instils. During the late war, the tradesmen of England would have endured buffets from the French on the right cheek and on the left; their cloak they would have given to Napoleon, and then have politely offered him their coat also, nor would they have withheld their waistcoat if urged; they would have prayed permission only to retain their one other garment, for the sake of the purse in its pocket. Not one spark of spirit, not one symptom of resistance, would they have shown till the hand of the Corsican bandit had grasped that beloved purse; _then_, perhaps, transfigured at once into British bulldogs, they would have sprung at the robber's throat, and there they would have fastened, and there hung, inveterate, insatiable, till the treasure had been restored. Tradesmen, when they speak against war, always profess to hate it because it is a bloody and barbarous proceeding. You would think, to hear them talk, that they are peculiarly civilized--especially gentle and kindly of disposition to their fellow-men. This is not the case. Many of them are extremely narrow and cold-hearted; have no good feeling for any class but their own; are distant, even hostile, to all others; call them useless; seem to question their right to exist; seem to grudge them the very air they breathe, and to think the circumstance of their eating, drinking, and living in decent houses quite unjustifiable. They do not know what others do in the way of helping, pleasing, or teaching their race; they will not trouble themselves to inquire. Whoever is not in trade is accused of eating the bread of idleness, of passing a useless existence. Long may it be ere England really becomes a nation of shop-keepers!

The British merchant classes are intensely selfish. They think exclusively of making money; they are oblivious of every national consideration but that of extending England's commerce. Chivalry is dead in their hearts. Tradesmen profess to hate war because it is bloody and barbarous; you would think, to hear them talk, that they are gentle and kindly to their fellow-men. This is not the case. Many of them are extremely narrow and cold-hearted; distant, even hostile, to all classes but their own, questioning their very right to exist. Long may it be ere England really becomes a nation of shop-keepers!


We have already said that Moore was no self-sacrificing patriot, and we have also explained what circumstances rendered him specially prone to confine his attention and efforts to the furtherance of his individual interest; accordingly, when he felt himself urged a second time to the brink of ruin, none struggled harder than he against the influences which would have thrust him over. What he _could_ do towards stirring agitation in the north against the war he did, and he instigated others whose money and connections gave them more power than he possessed. Sometimes, by flashes, he felt there was little reason in the demands his party made on Government. When he heard of all Europe threatened by Bonaparte, and of all Europe arming to resist him; when he saw Russia menaced, and beheld Russia rising, incensed and stern, to defend her frozen soil, her wild provinces of serfs, her dark native despotism, from the tread, the yoke, the tyranny of a foreign victor--he knew that England, a free realm, could not _then_ depute her sons to make concessions and propose terms to the unjust, grasping French leader. When news came from time to time of the movements of that MAN then representing England in the Peninsula, of his advance from success to success--that advance so deliberate but so unswerving, so circumspect but so certain, so "unhasting" but so "unresting;" when he read Lord Wellington's own dispatches in the columns of the newspapers, documents written by modesty to the dictation of truth--Moore confessed at heart that a power was with the troops of Britain, of that vigilant, enduring, genuine, unostentatious sort, which must win victory to the side it led, in the end. In the end! But that end, he thought, was yet far off; and meantime he, Moore, as an individual, would be crushed, his hopes ground to dust. It was himself he had to care for, his hopes he had to pursue; and he would fulfil his destiny.

Moore was no self-sacrificing patriot, and spoke out against the war. Sometimes, by flashes, he felt there was little reason in his demands. When he heard of all Europe threatened by Bonaparte, and arming to resist him; when he saw Russia menaced, and Russia rising, incensed and stern, to defend her frozen soil, he knew that England could not make concessions to the grasping French leader. When he read Lord Wellington's dispatches in the newspapers, Moore felt that vigilant commander must win victory in the end. But the end, he thought, was still far off; and meantime he, Moore, would be crushed, his hopes ground to dust. It was himself he had to care for.


He fulfilled it so vigorously that ere long he came to a decisive rupture with his old Tory friend the rector. They quarrelled at a public meeting, and afterwards exchanged some pungent letters in the newspapers. Mr. Helstone denounced Moore as a Jacobin, ceased to see him, would not even speak to him when they met. He intimated also to his niece, very distinctly, that her communications with Hollow's Cottage must for the present cease; she must give up taking French lessons. The language, he observed, was a bad and frivolous one at the best, and most of the works it boasted were bad and frivolous, highly injurious in their tendency to weak female minds. He wondered (he remarked parenthetically) what noodle first made it the fashion to teach women French. Nothing was more improper for them. It was like feeding a rickety child on chalk and water gruel. Caroline must give it up, and give up her cousins too. They were dangerous people.

He soon came to a decisive rupture with his old Tory friend the rector. They quarrelled at a public meeting, and afterwards exchanged some pungent letters in the newspapers. Mr. Helstone denounced Moore as a Jacobin, and would not speak to him when they met. He told his niece that her communications with Hollow's Cottage must cease; she must give up taking French lessons. The language, he observed, was a bad and frivolous one, and most works in French were highly injurious to weak female minds. Caroline must give up French, and give up her cousins too. They were dangerous people.


Mr. Helstone quite expected opposition to this order; he expected tears. Seldom did he trouble himself about Caroline's movements, but a vague idea possessed him that she was fond of going to Hollow's Cottage; also he suspected that she liked Robert Moore's occasional presence at the rectory. The Cossack had perceived that whereas if Malone stepped in of an evening to make himself sociable and charming, by pinching the ears of an aged black cat, which usually shared with Miss Helstone's feet the accommodation of her footstool, or by borrowing a fowling-piece, and banging away at a tool shed door in the garden while enough of daylight remained to show that conspicuous mark, keeping the passage and sitting-room doors meantime uncomfortably open for the convenience of running in and out to announce his failures and successes with noisy _brusquerie_--he had observed that under such entertaining circumstances Caroline had a trick of disappearing, tripping noiselessly upstairs, and remaining invisible till called down to supper. On the other hand, when Robert Moore was the guest, though he elicited no vivacities from the cat, did nothing to it, indeed, beyond occasionally coaxing it from the stool to his knee, and there letting it purr, climb to his shoulder, and rub its head against his cheek; though there was no ear-splitting cracking off of firearms, no diffusion of sulphurous gunpowder perfume, no noise, no boasting during his stay--that still Caroline sat in the room, and seemed to find wondrous content in the stitching of Jew-basket pin-cushions and the knitting of missionary-basket socks.

Mr. Helstone quite expected tears. He had a vague idea that she was fond of going to Hollow's Cottage; also he suspected that she liked Robert Moore's occasional presence at the rectory. He had perceived that when the Irish curate Malone visited, Caroline would disappear upstairs, and remain invisible till called down to supper. On the other hand, when Robert Moore was the guest, she stayed in the room, quietly stitching pin-cushions.


She was very quiet, and Robert paid her little attention, scarcely ever addressing his discourse to her; but Mr. Helstone, not being one of those elderly gentlemen who are easily blinded--on the contrary, finding himself on all occasions extremely wide-awake--had watched them when they bade each other good-night. He had just seen their eyes meet once--only once. Some natures would have taken pleasure in the glance then surprised, because there was no harm and some delight in it. It was by no means a glance of mutual intelligence, for mutual love secrets existed not between them. There was nothing then of craft and concealment to offend: only Mr. Moore's eyes, looking into Caroline's, felt they were clear and gentle; and Caroline's eyes, encountering Mr. Moore's, confessed they were manly and searching. Each acknowledged the charm in his or her own way. Moore smiled slightly, and Caroline coloured as slightly. Mr. Helstone could, on the spot, have rated them both. They annoyed him. Why? Impossible to say. If you had asked him what Moore merited at that moment, he would have said a "horsewhip;" if you had inquired into Caroline's deserts, he would have adjudged her a box on the ear; if you had further demanded the reason of such chastisements, he would have stormed against flirtation and love-making, and vowed he would have no such folly going on under his roof.

Robert paid her little attention; but Mr. Helstone had watched them when they bade each other good-night. He had seen their eyes meet only once. There was nothing in that glance to offend: only Moore smiled slightly, and Caroline coloured as slightly.
Mr. Helstone was annoyed. Why? Impossible to say. If you had asked him, he would have stormed against flirtation and love-making, and vowed he would have no such folly going on under his roof.


These private considerations, combined with political reasons, fixed his resolution of separating the cousins. He announced his will to Caroline one evening as she was sitting at work near the drawing-room window. Her face was turned towards him, and the light fell full upon it. It had struck him a few minutes before that she was looking paler and quieter than she used to look. It had not escaped him either that Robert Moore's name had never, for some three weeks past, dropped from her lips; nor during the same space of time had that personage made his appearance at the rectory. Some suspicion of clandestine meetings haunted his mind. Having but an indifferent opinion of women, he always suspected them. He thought they needed constant watching. It was in a tone dryly significant he desired her to cease her daily visits to the Hollow. He expected a start, a look of depreciation. The start he saw, but it was a very slight one; no look whatever was directed to him.

For this reason, as well as political ones, he resolved to separate the cousins. He announced his will to Caroline one evening as she was sitting at work near the drawing-room window. The light fell on her face, and it struck him that she was looking paler and quieter than she used to. He had noticed that Robert Moore's name had never, for some three weeks, dropped from her lips; nor had Moore during that time visited the rectory. Some suspicion of secret meetings haunted Mr. Helstone. He thought women needed constant watching. In a dryly significant tone he desired Caroline to cease her daily visits to the Hollow. He expected a start; but saw only a very slight one.


"Of course you mean to attend to what I say?"


"And there must be no letter-scribbling to your cousin Hortense--no intercourse whatever. I do not approve of the principles of the family. They are Jacobinical."

"And there must be no letter-scribbling to your cousin Hortense - no communication whatever. I do not approve of the principles of the family. They are Jacobinical."


"Very well," said Caroline quietly. She acquiesced then. There was no vexed flushing of the face, no gathering tears; the shadowy thoughtfulness which had covered her features ere Mr. Helstone spoke remained undisturbed; she was obedient.

"Very well," said Caroline quietly. There was no vexed flushing of the face, no gathering tears; she was thoughtful and obedient.


Yes, perfectly; because the mandate coincided with her own previous judgment; because it was now become pain to her to go to Hollow's Cottage; nothing met her there but disappointment. Hope and love had quitted that little tenement, for Robert seemed to have deserted its precincts. Whenever she asked after him--which she very seldom did, since the mere utterance of his name made her face grow hot--the answer was, he was from home, or he was quite taken up with business. Hortense feared he was killing himself by application. He scarcely ever took a meal in the house; he lived in the counting-house.

Yes, perfectly; because the order coincided with her own decision. It was now painful to her to go to Hollow's Cottage; nothing met her there but disappointment. Hope and love had left that little house, for Robert seemed to have deserted it. Whenever she asked after him, he was away from home, or taken up with business.


At church only Caroline had the chance of seeing him, and there she rarely looked at him. It was both too much pain and too much pleasure to look--it excited too much emotion; and that it was all wasted emotion she had learned well to comprehend.

Only at church had Caroline the chance of seeing him, and there she rarely looked at him. It was both too much pain and too much pleasure to look - it brought too much emotion; and that it was all wasted emotion she had learned to comprehend.


Once, on a dark, wet Sunday, when there were few people at church, and when especially certain ladies were absent, of whose observant faculties and tomahawk tongues Caroline stood in awe, she had allowed her eye to seek Robert's pew, and to rest awhile on its occupant. He was there alone. Hortense had been kept at home by prudent considerations relative to the rain and a new spring _chapeau_. During the sermon he sat with folded arms and eyes cast down, looking very sad and abstracted. When depressed, the very hue of his face seemed more dusk than when he smiled, and to-day cheek and forehead wore their most tintless and sober olive. By instinct Caroline knew, as she examined that clouded countenance, that his thoughts were running in no familiar or kindly channel; that they were far away, not merely from her, but from all which she could comprehend, or in which she could sympathize. Nothing that they had ever talked of together was now in his mind: he was wrapt from her by interests and responsibilities in which it was deemed such as she could have no part.

Once, on a dark, wet Sunday, when there were few people at church, Caroline had allowed her eye to seek Robert's pew. He was there alone. Hortense had been kept at home by the rain. He sat with folded arms and eyes cast down, looking very sad and abstracted. By instinct Caroline knew that his thoughts were far away, not merely from her, but from all in which she could sympathize. He was wrapped up in responsibilities in which she could have no part.


Caroline meditated in her own way on the subject; speculated on his feelings, on his life, on his fears, on his fate; mused over the mystery of "business," tried to comprehend more about it than had ever been told her--to understand its perplexities, liabilities, duties, exactions; endeavoured to realize the state of mind of a "man of business," to enter into it, feel what he would feel, aspire to what he would aspire. Her earnest wish was to see things as they were, and not to be romantic. By dint of effort she contrived to get a glimpse of the light of truth here and there, and hoped that scant ray might suffice to guide her.

She speculated on his feelings, on his life, on his fears, on his fate; mused over the mystery of "business," tried to understand its perplexities and duties, and to enter into his state of mind, to feel what he would feel. She wished earnestly to see things as they were, and not to be romantic. By dint of effort she contrived to get a glimpse of the truth here and there.


"Different, indeed," she concluded, "is Robert's mental condition to mine. I think only of him; he has no room, no leisure, to think of me. The feeling called love is and has been for two years the predominant emotion of my heart--always there, always awake, always astir. Quite other feelings absorb his reflections and govern his faculties. He is rising now, going to leave the church, for service is over. Will he turn his head towards this pew? No, not once. He has not one look for me. That is hard. A kind glance would have made me happy till to-morrow. I have not got it; he would not give it; he is gone. Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine."

"Different, indeed," she concluded, "is Robert's mental condition to mine. I think only of him; he has no leisure to think of me. Love is the chief emotion of my heart - always there, always awake. Quite other feelings absorb him. He is rising now to leave the church, for service is over. Will he turn his head towards me? No. That is hard. A kind glance would have made me happy till tomorrow. He would not give it; he is gone. Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human's eye has failed to greet mine."


That Sunday evening, Mr. Malone coming, as usual, to pass it with his rector, Caroline withdrew after tea to her chamber. Fanny, knowing her habits, had lit her a cheerful little fire, as the weather was so gusty and chill. Closeted there, silent and solitary, what could she do but think? She noiselessly paced to and fro the carpeted floor, her head drooped, her hands folded. It was irksome to sit; the current of reflection ran rapidly through her mind; to-night she was mutely excited.

That Sunday evening, when Mr. Malone came as usual to visit his rector, Caroline withdrew to her chamber, where Fanny had lit her a fire. Closeted there, silent and solitary, what could she do but think? She noiselessly paced to and fro, her head drooped, her hands folded.


Mute was the room, mute the house. The double door of the study muffled the voices of the gentlemen. The servants were quiet in the kitchen, engaged with books their young mistress had lent them--books which she had told them were "fit for Sunday reading." And she herself had another of the same sort open on the table, but she could not read it. Its theology was incomprehensible to her, and her own mind was too busy, teeming, wandering, to listen to the language of another mind.

Mute was the room, mute the house. The double door of the study muffled the voices of the gentlemen. She had a religious book open on the table, but she could not read it. Its theology was incomprehensible to her, and her own mind was too busy to listen to the language of another mind.


Then, too, her imagination was full of pictures--images of Moore, scenes where he and she had been together; winter fireside sketches; a glowing landscape of a hot summer afternoon passed with him in the bosom of Nunnely Wood; divine vignettes of mild spring or mellow autumn moments, when she had sat at his side in Hollow's Copse, listening to the call of the May cuckoo, or sharing the September treasure of nuts and ripe blackberries--a wild dessert which it was her morning's pleasure to collect in a little basket, and cover with green leaves and fresh blossoms, and her afternoon's delight to administer to Moore, berry by berry, and nut by nut, like a bird feeding its fledgling.

Her imagination was full of pictures - images of Moore, scenes where he and she had been together; winter fireside sketches; a hot summer afternoon in Nunnely Wood; mild spring or mellow autumn moments, when she had sat at his side in Hollow's Copse, listening to the call of the May cuckoo, or sharing the September treasure of nuts and blackberries.


Robert's features and form were with her; the sound of his voice was quite distinct in her ear; his few caresses seemed renewed. But these joys, being hollow, were, ere long, crushed in. The pictures faded, the voice failed, the visionary clasp melted chill from her hand, and where the warm seal of lips had made impress on her forehead, it felt now as if a sleety rain-drop had fallen. She returned from an enchanted region to the real world: for Nunnely Wood in June she saw her narrow chamber; for the songs of birds in alleys she heard the rain on her casement; for the sigh of the south wind came the sob of the mournful east; and for Moore's manly companionship she had the thin illusion of her own dim shadow on the wall. Turning from the pale phantom which reflected herself in its outline, and her reverie in the drooped attitude of its dim head and colourless tresses, she sat down--inaction would suit the frame of mind into which she was now declining--she said to herself, "I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As far as I know, I have good health; half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the interval of time which spreads between me and the grave?"

Robert's face was with her; his voice was quite distinct in her ear; his few caresses seemed renewed. But the pictures faded, the voice failed, and where the warm lips had made impress on her forehead, it felt now as if a cold raindrop had fallen. She returned to the real world: she saw her narrow chamber, and heard the rain on the window; for companionship she had own dim shadow on the wall.
Sitting down, she said to herself, "I have to live, perhaps, till I am seventy. Half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the time which spreads between me and the grave?"


"I shall not be married, it appears," she continued. "I suppose, as Robert does not care for me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had reckoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy my existence. I considered, somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing up to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any other; but now I perceive plainly I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an old maid. I shall live to see Robert married to some one else, some rich lady. I shall never marry. What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the world?"

"I shall not be married, it appears," she continued. "I suppose, as Robert does not care for me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had reckoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy my existence; but now I perceive plainly I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an old maid. I shall live to see Robert married to some rich lady. I shall never marry. What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the world?"


"Ah! I see," she pursued presently; "that is the question which most old maids are puzzled to solve. Other people solve it for them by saying, 'Your place is to do good to others, to be helpful whenever help is wanted.' That is right in some measure, and a very convenient doctrine for the people who hold it; but I perceive that certain sets of human beings are very apt to maintain that other sets should give up their lives to them and their service, and then they requite them by praise; they call them devoted and virtuous. Is this enough? Is it to live? Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow it on? I suspect there is. Does virtue lie in abnegation of self? I do not believe it. Undue humility makes tyranny; weak concession creates selfishness. The Romish religion especially teaches renunciation of self, submission to others, and nowhere are found so many grasping tyrants as in the ranks of the Romish priesthood. Each human being has his share of rights. I suspect it would conduce to the happiness and welfare of all if each knew his allotment, and held to it as tenaciously as the martyr to his creed. Queer thoughts these that surge in my mind. Are they right thoughts? I am not certain.

"Ah! that is the question which most old maids are puzzled to solve. Other people solve it for them by saying, 'Your place is to do good and help others.' That is right in some measure, and a very convenient doctrine for the people who hold it; but I perceive that certain sets of human beings are very apt to say that other sets should give up their lives to them, and then they reward them by calling them devoted and virtuous. Is this enough? Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, in that existence which is given away to others? I suspect there is. Does virtue lie in denial of self? I do not believe it. Undue humility creates tyranny in others; weak concession creates selfishness. Each human being has his share of rights. Queer thoughts these that surge in my mind. Are they right thoughts? I am not certain.


"Well, life is short at the best. Seventy years, they say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh; and every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne--the grave, the little chink in the surface of this great globe, the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe deposits the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem; and there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body. The soul meantime wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing down through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the Christian's triple Godhead--the sovereign Father, the mediating Son, the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible, to describe what baffles description. The soul's real hereafter who shall guess?"

"Well, life is short at the best. Seventy years, they say, pass like a dream; and every path trod by human feet ends in the grave, the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe sets the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem; there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body. The soul meantime wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the sovereign Father, the mediating Son, the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible. The soul's real hereafter who shall guess?"


Her fire was decayed to its last cinder; Malone had departed; and now the study bell rang for prayers.

Her fire was out; the study bell rang for prayers.


The next day Caroline had to spend altogether alone, her uncle being gone to dine with his friend Dr. Boultby, vicar of Whinbury. The whole time she was talking inwardly in the same strain--looking forwards, asking what she was to do with life. Fanny, as she passed in and out of the room occasionally, intent on housemaid errands, perceived that her young mistress sat very still. She was always in the same place, always bent industriously over a piece of work. She did not lift her head to speak to Fanny, as her custom was; and when the latter remarked that the day was fine, and she ought to take a walk, she only said, "It is cold."

The next day Caroline had to spend alone, since her uncle was dining with Dr. Boultby, vicar of Whinbury. The whole time she talked inwardly in the same way, asking what she was to do with life. Fanny, passing in and out of the room on housemaid errands, perceived that her young mistress sat very still, always in the same place, always bent over a piece of work. She did not lift her head to speak to Fanny as usual, and when Fanny remarked that the day was fine, and that she ought to take a walk, she only said, "It is cold."


"You are very diligent at that sewing, Miss Caroline," continued the girl, approaching her little table.

"You are very diligent at that sewing, Miss Caroline."


"Then why do you go on with it? Put it down. Read, or do something to amuse you."


"It is solitary in this house, Fanny. Don't you think so?"

"It is lonely in this house, Fanny. Don't you think so?"


"I don't find it so, miss. Me and Eliza are company for one another; but you are quite too still. You should visit more. Now, be persuaded: go upstairs and dress yourself smart, and go and take tea, in a friendly way, with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley. I am certain either of those ladies would be delighted to see you."

"I don't find it so, miss. Me and Eliza are company for one another; but you are too still. You should visit more. Go upstairs and dress yourself smart, and go and take tea with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley. I am certain either of those ladies would be delighted to see you."


"But their houses are dismal: they are both old maids. I am certain old maids are a very unhappy race."


"Not they, miss. They can't be unhappy; they take such care of themselves. They are all selfish."


"Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny. She is always doing good. How devotedly kind she was to her step-mother as long as the old lady lived; and now when she is quite alone in the world, without brother or sister, or any one to care for her, how charitable she is to the poor, as far as her means permit! Still nobody thinks much of her, or has pleasure in going to see her; and how gentlemen always sneer at her!"

"Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny. She is always doing good. How devotedly kind she was to her step-mother while the old lady lived; and now when she is quite alone in the world, how charitable she is to the poor, as far as her means permit! Still nobody thinks much of her; and gentlemen always sneer at her!"


"They shouldn't, miss. I believe she is a good woman. But gentlemen think only of ladies' looks."


"I'll go and see her," exclaimed Caroline, starting up; "and if she asks me to stay to tea, I'll stay. How wrong it is to neglect people because they are not pretty, and young, and merry! And I will certainly call to see Miss Mann too. She may not be amiable, but what has made her unamiable? What has life been to her?"

"I'll go and see her," exclaimed Caroline, starting up; "and if she asks me to stay to tea, I'll stay. How wrong it is to neglect people because they are not pretty and young! And I will call to see Miss Mann too. She may not be amiable, but what has made her unamiable? What has life been to her?"


Fanny helped Miss Helstone to put away her work, and afterwards assisted her to dress.


"_You_'ll not be an old maid, Miss Caroline," she said, as she tied the sash of her brown silk frock, having previously smoothed her soft, full, and shining curls; "there are no signs of an old maid about you."

"You'll not be an old maid, Miss Caroline," she said, as she tied the sash of her brown silk frock, and smoothed her shining curls; "there are no signs of an old maid about you."


Caroline looked at the little mirror before her, and she thought there were some signs. She could see that she was altered within the last month; that the hues of her complexion were paler, her eyes changed--a wan shade seemed to circle them; her countenance was dejected--she was not, in short, so pretty or so fresh as she used to be. She distantly hinted this to Fanny, from whom she got no direct answer, only a remark that people did vary in their looks, but that at her age a little falling away signified nothing; she would soon come round again, and be plumper and rosier than ever. Having given this assurance, Fanny showed singular zeal in wrapping her up in warm shawls and handkerchiefs, till Caroline, nearly smothered with the weight, was fain to resist further additions.

Caroline looked at the mirror. She could see that she had altered within the last month; her complexion was paler, her eyes were circled with shadow; she was not so pretty or so fresh as she used to be. She hinted this to Fanny, who answered that at her age a little falling away signified nothing; she would soon come round again, and be rosier than ever. Fanny then showed singular zeal in wrapping her up in warm shawls, till Caroline was smothered with the weight.


She paid her visits--first to Miss Mann, for this was the most difficult point. Miss Mann was certainly not quite a lovable person. Till now, Caroline had always unhesitatingly declared she disliked her, and more than once she had joined her cousin Robert in laughing at some of her peculiarities. Moore was not habitually given to sarcasm, especially on anything humbler or weaker than himself; but he had once or twice happened to be in the room when Miss Mann had made a call on his sister, and after listening to her conversation and viewing her features for a time, he had gone out into the garden where his little cousin was tending some of his favourite flowers, and while standing near and watching her he had amused himself with comparing fair youth, delicate and attractive, with shrivelled eld, livid and loveless, and in jestingly repeating to a smiling girl the vinegar discourse of a cankered old maid. Once on such an occasion Caroline had said to him, looking up from the luxuriant creeper she was binding to its frame, "Ah! Robert, you do not like old maids. I, too, should come under the lash of your sarcasm if I were an old maid."

She paid her visits - first to Miss Mann, for this was the most difficult point. Miss Mann was certainly not quite a lovable person. Caroline had always declared she disliked her, and more than once she had joined her cousin Robert in laughing at her. Moore was not usually sarcastic, especially about people weaker than himself; but he had once or twice been present when Miss Mann had visited his sister, and after a while he had gone out into the garden where Caroline was tending flowers. While watching her he had amused himself with comparing fair, delicate youth with shrivelled age, livid and loveless, and had repeated to the smiling girl the vinegar discourse of the sour old maid. Caroline had said to him:
"Ah! Robert, you do not like old maids. I, too, should come under the lash of your sarcasm if I were an old maid."


"You an old maid!" he had replied. "A piquant notion suggested by lips of that tint and form. I can fancy you, though, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunk, but still with that straight nose, white forehead, and those soft eyes. I suppose, too, you will keep your voice, which has another 'timbre' than that hard, deep organ of Miss Mann's. Courage, Cary! Even at fifty you will not be repulsive."

"You an old maid!" he had replied. "A strange idea coming from those lips. I can imagine you, though, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunk, but still with those soft eyes. I suppose, too, you will keep your voice, unlike that hard, deep voice of Miss Mann's. Courage, Cary! Even at fifty you will not be repulsive."


"Miss Mann did not make herself, or tune her voice, Robert."

"Miss Mann did not make herself, or her voice, Robert."


"Nature made her in the mood in which she makes her briars and thorns; whereas for the creation of some women she reserves the May morning hours, when with light and dew she wooes the primrose from the turf and the lily from the wood-moss."

"Nature made her in the mood in which she makes briars and thorns; whereas for the creation of some women she reserves the May morning hours, when she makes the primrose and the lily."


Ushered into Miss Mann's little parlour, Caroline found her, as she always found her, surrounded by perfect neatness, cleanliness, and comfort (after all, is it not a virtue in old maids that solitude rarely makes them negligent or disorderly?)--no dust on her polished furniture, none on her carpet, fresh flowers in the vase on her table, a bright fire in the grate. She herself sat primly and somewhat grimly-tidy in a cushioned rocking-chair, her hands busied with some knitting. This was her favourite work, as it required the least exertion. She scarcely rose as Caroline entered. To avoid excitement was one of Miss Mann's aims in life. She had been composing herself ever since she came down in the morning, and had just attained a certain lethargic state of tranquillity when the visitor's knock at the door startled her, and undid her day's work. She was scarcely pleased, therefore, to see Miss Helstone. She received her with reserve, bade her be seated with austerity, and when she got her placed opposite, she fixed her with her eye.

Today, ushered into Miss Mann's little parlour, Caroline found her surrounded by perfect neatness, cleanliness, and comfort, with fresh flowers in the vase on the table, and a bright fire in the grate. Miss Mann herself sat primly and somewhat grimly in a rocking-chair, knitting. She scarcely rose as Caroline entered.
To avoid excitement was one of Miss Mann's aims in life. She had been composing herself ever since she came down in the morning, and had just attained a state of tranquillity when the visitor's knock at the door startled her. She was not pleased, therefore, to see Miss Helstone. She received her with reserve, bade her be seated with austerity, and then fixed her with her eye.


This was no ordinary doom--to be fixed with Miss Mann's eye. Robert Moore had undergone it once, and had never forgotten the circumstance.

This was no ordinary doom - to be fixed with Miss Mann's eye. Robert Moore had undergone it once, and had never forgotten it.


He considered it quite equal to anything Medusa could do. He professed to doubt whether, since that infliction, his flesh had been quite what it was before--whether there was not something stony in its texture. The gaze had had such an effect on him as to drive him promptly from the apartment and house; it had even sent him straightway up to the rectory, where he had appeared in Caroline's presence with a very queer face, and amazed her by demanding a cousinly salute on the spot, to rectify a damage that had been done him.


Certainly Miss Mann had a formidable eye for one of the softer sex. It was prominent, and showed a great deal of the white, and looked as steadily, as unwinkingly, at you as if it were a steel ball soldered in her head; and when, while looking, she began to talk in an indescribably dry, monotonous tone--a tone without vibration or inflection--you felt as if a graven image of some bad spirit were addressing you. But it was all a figment of fancy, a matter of surface. Miss Mann's goblin grimness scarcely went deeper than the angel sweetness of hundreds of beauties. She was a perfectly honest, conscientious woman, who had performed duties in her day from whose severe anguish many a human Peri, gazelle-eyed, silken-tressed, and silver-tongued, would have shrunk appalled. She had passed alone through protracted scenes of suffering, exercised rigid self-denial, made large sacrifices of time, money, health for those who had repaid her only by ingratitude, and now her main--almost her sole--fault was that she was censorious.

Certainly Miss Mann had a formidable eye. It was prominent, and showed a great deal of the white, and looked as unwinkingly at you as if it were a steel ball soldered in her head; and when she began to talk in her dry, monotonous tone, you felt as if a graven image of some bad spirit were addressing you. But it was all on the surface. Miss Mann's goblin grimness scarcely went deeper than the angel sweetness of hundreds of beauties. She was a perfectly honest, conscientious woman, who had performed duties in her day from whose severe anguish many a gazelle-eyed enchantress would have shrunk appalled. She had passed alone through long scenes of suffering, exercised rigid self-denial, sacrificed her time, money and health for those who had repaid her by ingratitude; and now her main - almost her sole - fault was that she was censorious.


Censorious she certainly was. Caroline had not sat five minutes ere her hostess, still keeping her under the spell of that dread and Gorgon gaze, began flaying alive certain of the families in the neighbourhood. She went to work at this business in a singularly cool, deliberate manner, like some surgeon practising with his scalpel on a lifeless subject. She made few distinctions; she allowed scarcely any one to be good; she dissected impartially almost all her acquaintance. If her auditress ventured now and then to put in a palliative word she set it aside with a certain disdain. Still, though thus pitiless in moral anatomy, she was no scandal-monger. She never disseminated really malignant or dangerous reports. It was not her heart so much as her temper that was wrong.

Censorious she certainly was. Caroline had not sat five minutes before her hostess, still keeping her under the spell of that Gorgon gaze, began flaying alive certain families in the neighbourhood. She went about this in a cool, deliberate manner. If Caroline ventured to put in a softening word she set it aside with disdain. Still, though pitiless, she was no scandal-monger. She never spread malignant or dangerous reports. It was not her heart so much as her temper that was wrong.


Caroline made this discovery for the first time to-day, and moved thereby to regret divers unjust judgments she had more than once passed on the crabbed old maid, she began to talk to her softly, not in sympathizing words, but with a sympathizing voice. The loneliness of her condition struck her visitor in a new light, as did also the character of her ugliness--a bloodless pallor of complexion, and deeply worn lines of feature. The girl pitied the solitary and afflicted woman; her looks told what she felt. A sweet countenance is never so sweet as when the moved heart animates it with compassionate tenderness. Miss Mann, seeing such a countenance raised to her, was touched in her turn. She acknowledged her sense of the interest thus unexpectedly shown in her, who usually met with only coldness and ridicule, by replying to her candidly. Communicative on her own affairs she usually was not, because no one cared to listen to her; but to-day she became so, and her confidante shed tears as she heard her speak, for she told of cruel, slow-wasting, obstinate sufferings. Well might she be corpse-like; well might she look grim, and never smile; well might she wish to avoid excitement, to gain and retain composure! Caroline, when she knew all, acknowledged that Miss Mann was rather to be admired for fortitude than blamed for moroseness. Reader! when you behold an aspect for whose constant gloom and frown you cannot account, whose unvarying cloud exasperates you by its apparent causelessness, be sure that there is a canker somewhere, and a canker not the less deeply corroding because concealed.

Caroline made this discovery for the first time today, and began to talk to her softly, not in sympathizing words, but with a sympathizing voice. Miss Mann's loneliness struck her in a new light, as did the character of her ugliness - a bloodless pallor, and deeply lined face. The girl pitied her; and her tenderness touched Miss Mann in her turn. She did not usually talk about her own affairs, because no one cared to listen; but today she did, and Caroline shed tears as she heard her speak of cruel, slow-wasting sufferings. Well might she be corpse-like, and never smile; well might she wish to avoid excitement! Caroline, when she knew all, acknowledged that Miss Mann was rather to be admired for fortitude than blamed for moroseness.


Miss Mann felt that she was understood partly, and wished to be understood further; for, however old, plain, humble, desolate, afflicted we may be, so long as our hearts preserve the feeblest spark of life, they preserve also, shivering near that pale ember, a starved, ghostly longing for appreciation and affection. To this extenuated spectre, perhaps, a crumb is not thrown once a year, but when ahungered and athirst to famine--when all humanity has forgotten the dying tenant of a decaying house--Divine mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna falls for lips that earthly nutriment is to pass no more. Biblical promises, heard first in health, but then unheeded, come whispering to the couch of sickness; it is felt that a pitying God watches what all mankind have forsaken. The tender compassion of Jesus is recalled and relied on; the faded eye, gazing beyond time, sees a home, a friend, a refuge in eternity.

Miss Mann felt that she was partly understood, and wished to be understood further; for however old, plain and desolate we may be, our hearts preserve still a starved, ghostly longing for appreciation and affection.


Miss Mann, drawn on by the still attention of her listener, proceeded to allude to circumstances in her past life. She spoke like one who tells the truth--simply, and with a certain reserve; she did not boast, nor did she exaggerate. Caroline found that the old maid had been a most devoted daughter and sister, an unwearied watcher by lingering deathbeds; that to prolonged and unrelaxing attendance on the sick the malady that now poisoned her own life owed its origin; that to one wretched relative she had been a support and succour in the depths of self-earned degradation, and that it was still her hand which kept him from utter destitution. Miss Helstone stayed the whole evening, omitting to pay her other intended visit; and when she left Miss Mann it was with the determination to try in future to excuse her faults; never again to make light of her peculiarities or to laugh at her plainness; and, above all things, not to neglect her, but to come once a week, and to offer her, from one human heart at least, the homage of affection and respect. She felt she could now sincerely give her a small tribute of each feeling.

Miss Mann, drawn on by her listener's attention, spoke of her past life simply; she did not boast, nor exaggerate. Caroline found that the old maid had been a devoted daughter and sister, an unwearied watcher by lingering deathbeds; her malady owed its origin to that long attendance on the sick. To one wretched relative she had been a support in the depths of degradation, and she still kept him from utter destitution.
Miss Helstone stayed the whole evening; and when she left Miss Mann it was with the determination to try in future to excuse her faults; never again to laugh at her; and, above all, not to neglect her, but to come once a week, and offer her sincere affection and respect.


Caroline, on her return, told Fanny she was very glad she had gone out, as she felt much better for the visit. The next day she failed not to seek Miss Ainley. This lady was in narrower circumstances than Miss Mann, and her dwelling was more humble. It was, however, if possible, yet more exquisitely clean, though the decayed gentlewoman could not afford to keep a servant, but waited on herself, and had only the occasional assistance of a little girl who lived in a cottage near.

Caroline, on her return, told Fanny she was very glad she had gone out, as she felt much better for the visit. The next day she sought out Miss Ainley. This lady was poorer than Miss Mann, and her dwelling was more humble. It was, however, if possible, yet more exquisitely clean, though Miss Ainley could not afford to keep a servant.


Not only was Miss Ainley poorer, but she was even plainer than the other old maid. In her first youth she must have been ugly; now, at the age of fifty, she was _very_ ugly. At first sight, all but peculiarly well-disciplined minds were apt to turn from her with annoyance, to conceive against her a prejudice, simply on the ground of her unattractive look. Then she was prim in dress and manner; she looked, spoke, and moved the complete old maid.

Miss Ainley was very ugly. At first sight, all but very well-disciplined minds were apt to be prejudiced against her, simply on the ground of her unattractiveness. Then she was prim in dress and manner; she looked the complete old maid.


Her welcome to Caroline was formal, even in its kindness--for it was kind; but Miss Helstone excused this. She knew something of the benevolence of the heart which beat under that starched kerchief; all the neighbourhood--at least all the female neighbourhood--knew something of it. No one spoke against Miss Ainley except lively young gentlemen and inconsiderate old ones, who declared her hideous.

Her welcome to Caroline was formal, though kind; but Miss Helstone knew something of the benevolence of Miss Ainley's heart; all the female neighbourhood knew something of it. No one spoke against Miss Ainley, except lively young gentlemen and inconsiderate old ones, who declared her hideous.


Caroline was soon at home in that tiny parlour. A kind hand took from her her shawl and bonnet, and installed her in the most comfortable seat near the fire. The young and the antiquated woman were presently deep in kindly conversation, and soon Caroline became aware of the power a most serene, unselfish, and benignant mind could exercise over those to whom it was developed. She talked never of herself, always of others. Their faults she passed over. Her theme was their wants, which she sought to supply; their sufferings, which she longed to alleviate. She was religious, a professor of religion--what some would call "a saint;" and she referred to religion often in sanctioned phrase--in phrase which those who possess a perception of the ridiculous, without owning the power of exactly testing and truly judging character, would certainly have esteemed a proper subject for satire, a matter for mimicry and laughter. They would have been hugely mistaken for their pains. Sincerity is never ludicrous; it is always respectable. Whether truth--be it religious or moral truth--speak eloquently and in well-chosen language or not, its voice should be heard with reverence. Let those who cannot nicely, and with certainty, discern the difference between the tones of hypocrisy and those of sincerity, never presume to laugh at all, lest they should have the miserable misfortune to laugh in the wrong place, and commit impiety when they think they are achieving wit.

Caroline was soon at home in that tiny parlour, installed in the most comfortable seat near the fire. The young and the old woman were presently deep in kindly conversation, and Caroline became aware of the power of an unselfish and benign mind. Miss Ainley talked never of herself, always of others: and not of their faults, but their wants and sufferings, which she longed to alleviate. She was religious, and spoke of religion often in a way which some people would have enjoyed ridiculing. They would have been hugely mistaken. Sincerity is never ludicrous; it is always to be respected.


Not from Miss Ainley's own lips did Caroline hear of her good works, but she knew much of them nevertheless. Her beneficence was the familiar topic of the poor in Briarfield. They were not works of almsgiving. The old maid was too poor to give much, though she straitened herself to privation that she might contribute her mite when needful. They were the works of a Sister of Charity--far more difficult to perform than those of a Lady Bountiful. She would watch by any sick-bed; she seemed to fear no disease. She would nurse the poorest whom none else would nurse. She was serene, humble, kind, and equable through everything.

Not from Miss Ainley's own lips did Caroline hear of her good works, but she knew much of them nevertheless, from the poor in Briarfield. They were not works of almsgiving. The old maid was too poor to give much. They were the works of a Sister of Charity - far more difficult to perform than those of a Lady Bountiful. She would watch by any sick-bed; she seemed to fear no disease. She would nurse the poorest whom no one else would nurse. She was serene, humble, kind, and equable through everything.


For this goodness she got but little reward in this life. Many of the poor became so accustomed to her services that they hardly thanked her for them. The rich heard them mentioned with wonder, but were silent, from a sense of shame at the difference between her sacrifices and their own. Many ladies, however, respected her deeply. They could not help it. One gentleman--one only--gave her his friendship and perfect confidence. This was Mr. Hall, the vicar of Nunnely. He said, and said truly, that her life came nearer the life of Christ than that of any other human being he had ever met with. You must not think, reader, that in sketching Miss Ainley's character I depict a figment of imagination. No. We seek the originals of such portraits in real life only.

For this goodness she got little reward. Many of the poor became so accustomed to her services that they hardly thanked her. The rich heard of them with wonder, but were silent, from a sense of shame at the difference between her sacrifices and their own. Many ladies, however, respected her deeply. One gentleman - one only - gave her his friendship and perfect confidence. This was Mr. Hall, the vicar of Nunnely, who said that her life came nearer the life of Christ than that of any other human being he had ever met. You must not think, reader, that Miss Ainley's character is a figment of imagination. No. We seek the originals of such portraits in real life only.


Miss Helstone studied well the mind and heart now revealed to her. She found no high intellect to admire--the old maid was merely sensible--but she discovered so much goodness, so much usefulness, so much mildness, patience, truth, that she bent her own mind before Miss Ainley's in reverence. What was her love of nature, what was her sense of beauty, what were her more varied and fervent emotions, what was her deeper power of thought, what her wider capacity to comprehend, compared to the practical excellence of this good woman? Momently, they seemed only beautiful forms of selfish delight; mentally, she trod them under foot.

Miss Helstone studied well the mind and heart now revealed to her. She found no high intellect - the old maid was merely sensible - but she discovered so much goodness, usefulness, mildness, patience, truth, that she revered Miss Ainley. What was her own love of nature, her sense of beauty, her fervent emotions, compared to the practical excellence of this good woman?


It is true she still felt with pain that the life which made Miss Ainley happy could not make her happy. Pure and active as it was, in her heart she deemed it deeply dreary, because it was so loveless--to her ideas, so forlorn. Yet, doubtless, she reflected, it needed only habit to make it practicable and agreeable to any one. It was despicable, she felt, to pine sentimentally, to cherish secret griefs, vain memories, to be inert, to waste youth in aching languor, to grow old doing nothing.

It is true she still felt with pain that the life which made Miss Ainley happy could not make her happy. Active as it was, it seemed deeply dreary, because it was so loveless. Yet, doubtless, it needed only habit to make it practicable. Caroline felt it was despicable to pine sentimentally, to waste youth in aching languor, to grow old doing nothing.


"I will bestir myself," was her resolution, "and try to be wise if I cannot be good."


She proceeded to make inquiry of Miss Ainley if she could help her in anything. Miss Ainley, glad of an assistant, told her that she could, and indicated some poor families in Briarfield that it was desirable she should visit, giving her likewise, at her further request, some work to do for certain poor women who had many children, and who were unskilled in using the needle for themselves.

She proceeded to ask Miss Ainley if she could help her in anything. Miss Ainley told her of some poor families in Briarfield that she could visit, and gave her some needlework to do for certain poor women who had many children, and who were unskilled with the needle.


Caroline went home, laid her plans, and took a resolve not to swerve from them. She allotted a certain portion of her time for her various studies, and a certain portion for doing anything Miss Ainley might direct her to do. The remainder was to be spent in exercise; not a moment was to be left for the indulgence of such fevered thoughts as had poisoned last Sunday evening.

Caroline went home, and laid her plans. She allotted a portion of her time for her studies, and a portion for doing anything Miss Ainley might direct her to do. The remainder was to be spent in exercise; not a moment was to be left for the indulgence of such fevered thoughts as had poisoned last Sunday evening.


To do her justice, she executed her plans conscientiously, perseveringly. It was very hard work at first--it was even hard work to the end--but it helped her to stem and keep down anguish; it forced her to be employed; it forbade her to brood; and gleams of satisfaction chequered her gray life here and there when she found she had done good, imparted pleasure, or allayed suffering.

To do her justice, she carried out her plans perseveringly. It was very hard work at first, but it helped her to keep down anguish; it forced her to be busy; it forbade her to brood; and gleams of satisfaction chequered her grey life here and there when she found she had done some good.


Yet I must speak truth. These efforts brought her neither health of body nor continued peace of mind. With them all she wasted, grew more joyless and more wan; with them all her memory kept harping on the name of Robert Moore; an elegy over the past still rung constantly in her ear; a funereal inward cry haunted and harassed her; the heaviness of a broken spirit, and of pining and palsying faculties, settled slow on her buoyant youth. Winter seemed conquering her spring; the mind's soil and its treasures were freezing gradually to barren stagnation.

Yet I must speak truth. These efforts brought her neither health of body nor peace of mind. She grew more joyless and more wan; her memory kept harping on the name of Robert Moore; an elegy over the past still rung constantly in her ear; the heaviness of a broken spirit settled slow on her buoyant youth. Winter seemed conquering her spring; the mind's soil and its treasures were freezing gradually to barren stagnation.


Martin, having known the taste of excitement, wanted a second draught; having felt the dignity of power, he loathed to relinquish it. Miss Helstone--that girl he had always called ugly, and whose face was now perpetually before his eyes, by day and by night, in dark and in sunshine--had once come within his sphere. It fretted him to think the visit might never be repeated.

Martin, having tasted excitement and power, wanted more. Miss Helstone - that girl he had always called ugly, and whose face was now perpetually before him - had come within his sphere. It fretted him to think the visit might never be repeated.

Chapter 34: CASE OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION - REMARKABLE INSTANCE OF PIOUS PERSEVERANCE IN THE DISCHARGE OF RELIGIOUS DUTIES


Though a schoolboy he was no ordinary schoolboy; he was destined to grow up an original. At a few years' later date he took great pains to pare and polish himself down to the pattern of the rest of the world, but he never succeeded; an unique stamp marked him always. He now sat idle at his desk in the grammar school, casting about in his mind for the means of adding another chapter to his commenced romance. He did not yet know how many commenced life-romances are doomed never to get beyond the first, or at most the second chapter. His Saturday half-holiday he spent in the wood with his book of fairy legends, and that other unwritten book of his imagination.

Martin was no ordinary schoolboy; he was destined to grow up an original. A few years later he took great pains to pare and polish himself down to the pattern of the rest of the world, but he never succeeded. He now cast about in his mind for the means of adding another chapter to his romance. He did not yet know how many life-romances are doomed never to get beyond the first or second chapter.


Martin harboured an irreligious reluctance to see the approach of Sunday. His father and mother, while disclaiming community with the Establishment, failed not duly, once on the sacred day, to fill their large pew in Briarfield Church with the whole of their blooming family. Theoretically, Mr. Yorke placed all sects and churches on a level. Mrs. Yorke awarded the palm to Moravians and Quakers, on account of that crown of humility by these worthies worn. Neither of them were ever known, however, to set foot in a conventicle.

He had an irreligious dislike of Sunday. His father and mother never failed to fill their large pew in Briarfield Church with their whole family.


Martin, I say, disliked Sunday, because the morning service was long, and the sermon usually little to his taste. This Saturday afternoon, however, his woodland musings disclosed to him a new-found charm in the coming day.

The morning service was long, and the sermon usually little to Martin's taste. This Saturday afternoon, however, his woodland musings disclosed to him a new-found charm in the coming day.


It proved a day of deep snow--so deep that Mrs. Yorke during breakfast announced her conviction that the children, both boys and girls, would be better at home; and her decision that, instead of going to church, they should sit silent for two hours in the back parlour, while Rose and Martin alternately read a succession of sermons--John Wesley's "Sermons." John Wesley, being a reformer and an agitator, had a place both in her own and her husband's favour.

It proved a day of deep snow - so deep that during breakfast Mrs. Yorke announced that the children, instead of going to church, should sit silent for two hours in the parlour, while Rose and Martin read John Wesley's "Sermons".


"Rose will do as she pleases," said Martin, not looking up from the book which, according to his custom then and in after-life, he was studying over his bread and milk.

"Rose will do as she pleases," said Martin, not looking up from his book.


"Rose will do as she is told, and Martin too," observed the mother.

"Rose will do as she is told, and Martin too," said the mother.


So her son replied, with the ineffable quietude of a true Yorke, who knows his will and means to have it, and who, if pushed to the wall, will let himself be crushed to death, provided no way of escape can be found, but will never capitulate.

So her son replied quietly, like a true Yorke, who knows his will and means to have it.


"It is not fit weather," said the father.


No answer. The youth read studiously; he slowly broke his bread and sipped his milk.


"Martin hates to go to church, but he hates still more to obey," said Mrs. Yorke.


"I suppose I am influenced by pure perverseness?"

"I am not influenced by pure perverseness


"By a complication of motives, the intricacies of which I should as soon think of explaining to you as I should of turning myself inside out to exhibit the internal machinery of my frame."

but by a complication of motives, the intricacies of which I should as soon think of explaining to you as I should of turning myself inside out to exhibit the internal machinery of my frame."


"Hear Martin! hear him!" cried Mr. Yorke. "I must see and have this lad of mine brought up to the bar. Nature meant him to live by his tongue. Hesther, your third son must certainly be a lawyer; he has the stock-in-trade--brass, self-conceit, and words--words--words."

"Hear Martin! hear him!" cried Mr. Yorke. "I must have this lad of mine brought up to be a lawyer. He has the self-conceit, and words - words - words."


"Some bread, Rose, if you please," requested Martin, with intense gravity, serenity, phlegm. The boy had naturally a low, plaintive voice, which in his "dour moods" rose scarcely above a lady's whisper. The more inflexibly stubborn the humour, the softer, the sadder the tone. He rang the bell, and gently asked for his walking-shoes.

"Some bread, Rose, if you please," requested Martin with intense gravity. He rang the bell, and gently asked for his walking-shoes.


"But, Martin," urged his sire, "there is drift all the way; a man could hardly wade through it. However, lad," he continued, seeing that the boy rose as the church bell began to toll, "this is a case wherein I would by no means balk the obdurate chap of his will. Go to church by all means. There is a pitiless wind, and a sharp, frozen sleet, besides the depth under foot. Go out into it, since thou prefers it to a warm fireside."

"But, Martin," urged his father, "there are snowdrifts all the way; a man could hardly wade through. However, lad, go to church by all means. There is a pitiless wind, and a sharp, frozen sleet. Go out into it, since thou prefers it to a warm fireside."


Martin quietly assumed his cloak, comforter, and cap, and deliberately went out.

Martin quietly put on his cloak, scarf and cap, and went out.


"My father has more sense than my mother," he pronounced. "How women miss it! They drive the nail into the flesh, thinking they are hammering away at insensate stone."

"My father has more sense than my mother," he pronounced. "How women miss their aim!"


"Now, if the weather frightens her (and it is a real December tempest), or if that Mrs. Pryor objects to her going out, and I should miss her after all, it will vex me; but, tempest or tornado, hail or ice, she _ought_ to come, and if she has a mind worthy of her eyes and features she _will_ come. She will be here for the chance of seeing me, as I am here for the chance of seeing her. She will want to get a word respecting her confounded sweetheart, as I want to get another flavour of what I think the essence of life--a taste of existence, with the spirit preserved in it, and not evaporated. Adventure is to stagnation what champagne is to flat porter."

"Now, if the weather frightens her, or if that Mrs. Pryor objects to her going out, it will vex me; but, hail or ice, she ought to come. She will be here for the chance of seeing me, as I am here for the chance of seeing her. She will want to get a word about her confounded sweetheart, as I want to get another taste of adventure."


He looked round. The church was cold, silent, empty, but for one old woman. As the chimes subsided and the single bell tolled slowly, another and another elderly parishioner came dropping in, and took a humble station in the free sittings. It is always the frailest, the oldest, and the poorest that brave the worst weather, to prove and maintain their constancy to dear old mother church. This wild morning not one affluent family attended, not one carriage party appeared--all the lined and cushioned pews were empty; only on the bare oaken seats sat ranged the gray-haired elders and feeble paupers.

He looked round at the cold, empty church. As the bell tolled slowly, elderly parishioners came in, and took the humblest seats. It is always the frailest, the oldest, and poorest that brave the worst weather to attend church. This wild morning not one affluent family appeared: all the cushioned pews were empty; only on the bare oak seats sat the grey-haired elders and paupers.


"I'll scorn her if she doesn't come," muttered Martin, shortly and savagely, to himself. The rector's shovel-hat had passed the porch. Mr. Helstone and his clerk were in the vestry.

"I'll scorn her if she doesn't come," muttered Martin savagely to himself. The rector's shovel-hat had passed the porch. Mr. Helstone and his clerk were in the vestry.


The bells ceased--the reading-desk was filled--the doors were closed--the service commenced. Void stood the rectory pew--she was not there. Martin scorned her.

The bells ceased - the doors were closed - the service began. She was not there. Martin scorned her.


"Worthless thing! vapid thing! commonplace humbug! Like all other girls--weakly, selfish, shallow!"

"Worthless, vapid thing! Like all girls - weakly, selfish, shallow!


"She is not like our picture. Her eyes are not large and expressive; her nose is not straight, delicate, Hellenic; her mouth has not that charm I thought it had, which I imagined could beguile me of sullenness in my worst moods. What is she? A thread-paper, a doll, a toy, a _girl_, in short."

She is not like our picture at all. Her eyes are not large and expressive; her mouth has not that charm I thought it had. What is she? A thread-paper, a doll, a toy; a girl, in short."


So absorbed was the young cynic he forgot to rise from his knees at the proper place, and was still in an exemplary attitude of devotion when, the litany over, the first hymn was given out. To be so caught did not contribute to soothe him. He started up red (for he was as sensitive to ridicule as any girl). To make the matter worse, the church door had reopened, and the aisles were filling: patter, patter, patter, a hundred little feet trotted in. It was the Sunday scholars. According to Briarfield winter custom, these children had till now been kept where there was a warm stove, and only led into church just before the communion and sermon.

So absorbed was the young cynic he forgot to rise from his knees at the proper place. He started up red (for he was sensitive to ridicule). To make the matter worse, the church door had reopened, and the aisles were filling: patter, patter, patter, a hundred little feet trotted in. It was the Sunday scholars. According to Briarfield winter custom, these children had till now been kept where there was a warm stove, and only led into church just before the communion and sermon.


The little ones were settled first, and at last, when the boys and the younger girls were all arranged--when the organ was swelling high, and the choir and congregation were rising to uplift a spiritual song--a tall class of young women came quietly in, closing the procession. Their teacher, having seen them seated, passed into the rectory pew. The French-gray cloak and small beaver bonnet were known to Martin; it was the very costume his eyes had ached to catch. Miss Helstone had not suffered the storm to prove an impediment. After all, she was come to church. Martin probably whispered his satisfaction to his hymn book; at any rate, he therewith hid his face two minutes.

The little ones were settled first, and at last a tall class of young women came quietly in, closing the procession. Their teacher, having seen them seated, passed into the rectory pew. The French-grey cloak was known to Martin. Miss Helstone had come to church in the storm after all. Martin probably whispered his satisfaction to his hymn book; at any rate, he hid his face there for two minutes.


Satisfied or not, he had time to get very angry with her again before the sermon was over. She had never once looked his way; at least he had not been so lucky as to encounter a glance.

Satisfied or not, he had time to get angry with her again before the sermon was over. She had never once looked his way.


"If," he said--"if she takes no notice of me, if she shows I am not in her thoughts, I shall have a worse, a meaner opinion of her than ever. Most despicable would it be to come for the sake of those sheep-faced Sunday scholars, and not for my sake or that long skeleton Moore's."

"If she takes no notice of me, I shall have a worse opinion of her than ever. It would be despicable of her just to come for the sake of those sheep-faced Sunday scholars."


The sermon found an end; the benediction was pronounced; the congregation dispersed. She had not been near him.

The sermon ended; the congregation dispersed. She had not been near him.


Now, indeed, as Martin set his face homeward, he felt that the sleet was sharp and the east wind cold.


His nearest way lay through some fields. It was a dangerous, because an untrodden way. He did not care; he would take it. Near the second stile rose a clump of trees. Was that an umbrella waiting there? Yes, an umbrella, held with evident difficulty against the blast; behind it fluttered a French-gray cloak. Martin grinned as he toiled up the steep, encumbered field, difficult to the foot as a slope in the upper realms of Etna. There was an inimitable look in his face when, having gained the stile, he seated himself coolly thereupon, and thus opened a conference which, for his own part, he was willing to prolong indefinitely.

His nearest way lay through some untrodden fields. Near the second stile rose a clump of trees. Was that an umbrella waiting there? Yes, an umbrella, held with difficulty against the blast; behind it fluttered a French-grey cloak. Martin grinned as he toiled up the steep field. He seated himself coolly upon the stile, and said:


"I think you had better strike a bargain. Exchange me for Mrs. Pryor."


"I was not sure whether you would come this way, Martin, but I thought I would run the chance. There is no such thing as getting a quiet word spoken in the church or churchyard."

"I hoped you would come this way, Martin. There is no chance of getting a quiet word spoken in the church or churchyard."


"Will you agree?--make over Mrs. Pryor to my mother, and put me in her skirts?"

"Will you agree? Exchange me for Mrs. Pryor?"


"As if I could understand you! What puts Mrs. Pryor into your head?"


"Not possible--or so inefficient, so careless a mamma; I should make a five times better one. You _may_ laugh. I have no objection to see you laugh. Your teeth--I hate ugly teeth; but yours are as pretty as a pearl necklace, and a necklace of which the pearls are very fair, even, and well matched too."

She is so careless a mamma, I should be five times better. You may laugh. You have pretty teeth, as pretty as a pearl necklace."


"Martin, what now? I thought the Yorkes never paid compliments?"


"They have not done till this generation; but I feel as if it were my vocation to turn out a new variety of the Yorke species. I am rather tired of my own ancestors. We have traditions going back for four ages--tales of Hiram, which was the son of Hiram, which was the son of Samuel, which was the son of John, which was the son of Zerubbabel Yorke. All, from Zerubbabel down to the last Hiram, were such as you see my father. Before that there was a Godfrey. We have his picture; it hangs in Moore's bedroom; it is like me. Of his character we know nothing; but I am sure it was different to his descendants. He has long, curling dark hair; he is carefully and cavalierly dressed. Having said that he is like me, I need not add that he is handsome."

"They have not done till now; but I feel I should start a new variety of the Yorke species. I am rather tired of my own ancestors."


"No; but wait awhile--just let me take my time. I mean to begin from this day to cultivate, to polish, and we shall see."


"You are a very strange, a very unaccountable boy, Martin. But don't imagine you ever will be handsome; you cannot."

"You are a very strange, unaccountable boy, Martin."


"I mean to try. But we were talking about Mrs. Pryor. She must be the most unnatural mamma in existence, coolly to let her daughter come out in this weather. Mine was in such a rage because I would go to church; she was fit to fling the kitchen brush after me."

"But Mrs. Pryor must be the most unnatural mamma in existence, to let her daughter come out in this weather."


"Mamma was very much concerned about me; but I am afraid I was obstinate. I _would_ go."

"Mamma was very much concerned about me; but I was obstinate. I would go.


"Exactly; I thought of nothing else. I greatly feared the snow would hinder you from coming. You don't know how pleased I was to see you all by yourself in the pew."

I thought of nothing else but seeing you. I thought the snow would stop you. You don't know how pleased I was to see you by yourself in the pew."


"_I_ came to fulfil my duty, and set the parish a good example. And so you were obstinate, were you? I should like to see you obstinate, I should. Wouldn't I have you in good discipline if I owned you? Let me take the umbrella."

"I came to set the parish a good example. And so you were obstinate, were you? I should like to see you obstinate. Let me take the umbrella."


"I can't stay two minutes; our dinner will be ready."


"And so will ours; and we have always a hot dinner on Sundays. Roast goose to-day, with apple-pie and rice-pudding. I always contrive to know the bill of fare. Well, I like these things uncommonly; but I'll make the sacrifice, if you will."

"And so will ours; and we have always a hot dinner on Sundays. Roast goose today, with apple-pie and rice-pudding; but I'll make the sacrifice, if you will."


"We have a cold dinner. My uncle will allow no unnecessary cooking on the Sabbath. But I must return; the house would be in commotion if I failed to appear."

"We have a cold dinner on the Sabbath. But I must return; the house would be in commotion if I failed to appear.


"So will Briarmains, bless you! I think I hear my father sending out the overlooker and five of the dyers, to look in six directions for the body of his prodigal son in the snow; and my mother repenting her of her many misdeeds towards me, now I am gone."


"_That_ is what you came for, just to say that word."


"Hang him! he is no worse; but as ill-used as ever--mewed up, kept in solitary confinement. They mean to make either an idiot or a maniac of him, and take out a commission of lunacy. Horsfall starves him; you saw how thin he was."

"Hang him! he is no worse; but as ill-used as ever - kept in solitary confinement. Horsfall starves him; you saw how thin he was."


"You were very good the other day, Martin."


"I see what you are after; but you'll not wheedle me--I am no cat's-paw."

"I see what you are after; but you'll not wheedle me.


"But it must be done. It is quite a right thing, and a necessary thing."


"How you encroach! Remember, I managed the matter of my own free will before."


"I won't. The business gave me far too much trouble. I like my ease."

The business gave me far too much trouble."


"Mr. Moore wishes to see me, Martin, and I wish to see him."

"But Mr. Moore wishes to see me, Martin, and I wish to see him."


"It is too bad of your mother to exclude his friends."


"You know that would advance nothing. Well, I shall stick to my point. See him I will. If you won't help me, I'll manage without help."

"Well, if you won't help me, I'll manage without help."


"Do; there is nothing like self-reliance, self-dependence."

"Do; there is nothing like self-reliance."


"I have no time to reason with you now; but I consider you provoking. Good-morning."


Away she went, the umbrella shut, for she could not carry it against the wind.


"She is not vapid; she is not shallow," said Martin. "I shall like to watch, and mark how she will work her way without help. If the storm were not of snow, but of fire--such as came refreshingly down on the cities of the plain--she would go through it to procure five minutes' speech of that Moore. Now, I consider I have had a pleasant morning. The disappointments got time on; the fears and fits of anger only made that short discourse pleasanter, when it came at last. She expected to coax me at once. She'll not manage that in one effort. She shall come again, again, and yet again. It would please me to put her in a passion--to make her cry. I want to discover how far she will go--what she will do and dare--to get her will. It seems strange and new to find one human being thinking so much about another as she thinks about Moore. But it is time to go home; my appetite tells me the hour. Won't I walk into that goose? and we'll try whether Matthew or I shall get the largest cut of the apple-pie to-day."

"She is not vapid; she is not shallow," said Martin. "I shall like to see how she will work her way without help. I have had a pleasant morning. She expected to coax me at once, but she'll not manage it. She shall come again, and yet again. It would please me to put her in a passion - to make her cry. I want to discover how far she will go - what she will dare to get her will. It seems strange and new to find one human being thinking so much about another as she thinks about Moore. But it is time to go home; I am hungry. We'll see whether Matthew or I shall get the largest slice of apple-pie today."


Shirley showed she had been sincere in saying she should be glad of Caroline's society, by frequently seeking it; and, indeed, if she had not sought it, she would not have had it, for Miss Helstone was slow to make fresh acquaintance. She was always held back by the idea that people could not want her, that she could not amuse them; and a brilliant, happy, youthful creature like the heiress of Fieldhead seemed to her too completely independent of society so uninteresting as hers ever to find it really welcome.

Shirley showed she had been sincere in saying she should be glad of Caroline's society, by frequently seeking it. Indeed, if she had not sought it, she would not have had it, for Miss Helstone was slow to make friends. She was always held back by the idea that people could not want her, that she could not amuse them; and she felt that a brilliant, happy, youthful creature like the heiress of Fieldhead would not find her interesting.


Shirley might be brilliant, and probably happy likewise, but no one is independent of genial society; and though in about a month she had made the acquaintance of most of the families round, and was on quite free and easy terms with all the Misses Sykes, and all the Misses Pearson, and the two superlative Misses Wynne of Walden Hall, yet, it appeared, she found none amongst them very genial: she fraternized with none of them, to use her own words. If she had had the bliss to be really Shirley Keeldar, Esq., lord of the manor of Briarfield, there was not a single fair one in this and the two neighbouring parishes whom she should have felt disposed to request to become Mrs. Keeldar, lady of the manor. This declaration she made to Mrs. Pryor, who received it very quietly, as she did most of her pupil's off-hand speeches, responding, "My dear, do not allow that habit of alluding to yourself as a gentleman to be confirmed. It is a strange one. Those who do not know you, hearing you speak thus, would think you affected masculine manners."

Though in about a month Shirley had made the acquaintance of most of the nearby families, and was on quite free and easy terms with all the Misses Sykes and Misses Pearson, yet it appeared she found none of them very congenial: she fraternized with none of them, to use her own words. If she had really been lord of the manor of Briarfield, there was not a single fair one amongst them whom she would have wished to ask to become Mrs. Keeldar, lady of the manor. She made this remark to Mrs. Pryor, who received it very quietly, as she did most of her pupil's off-hand speeches, responding, "My dear, do not allow that strange habit of alluding to yourself as a gentleman to become usual."