The Complete Works: Charlotte, Emily, Anne, Patrick & Branwell Brontë - Anne Bronte

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and prevent us from breaking our hearts with a single tyrant master-torture. Besides, successful labour has its recompense; a vacant, weary, lonely, hopeless life has none.”

      “But hard labour and learned professions, they say, make women masculine, coarse, unwomanly.”

      “And what does it signify whether unmarried and never-to-be-married women are unattractive and inelegant or not? Provided only they are decent, decorous, and neat, it is enough. The utmost which ought to be required of old maids, in the way of appearance, is that they should not absolutely offend men’s eyes as they pass them in the street; for the rest, they should be allowed, without too much scorn, to be as absorbed, grave, plain-looking, and plain-dressed as they please.”

      “You might be an old maid yourself, Caroline, you speak so earnestly.”

      “I shall be one. It is my destiny. I will never marry a Malone or a Sykes; and no one else will ever marry me.”

      Here fell a long pause. Shirley broke it. Again the name by which she seemed bewitched was almost the first on her lips.

      “Lina — did not Moore call you Lina sometimes?”

      “Yes. It is sometimes used as the abbreviation of Caroline in his native country.”

      “Well, Lina, do you remember my one day noticing an inequality in your hair — a curl wanting on that right side — and your telling me that it was Robert’s fault, as he had once cut therefrom a long lock?”

      “Yes.”

      “If he is, and always was, as indifferent to you as you say, why did he steal your hair?”

      “I don’t know — yes, I do. It was my doing, not his. Everything of that sort always was my doing. He was going from home — to London, as usual; and the night before he went, I had found in his sister’s workbox a lock of black hair — a short, round curl. Hortense told me it was her brother’s, and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table. I looked at his head. He has plenty of hair; on the temples were many such round curls. I thought he could spare me one. I knew I should like to have it, and I asked for it. He said, on condition that he might have his choice of a tress from my head. So he got one of my long locks of hair, and I got one of his short ones. I keep his, but I dare say he has lost mine. It was my doing, and one of those silly deeds it distresses the heart and sets the face on fire to think of; one of those small but sharp recollections that return, lacerating your self-respect like tiny penknives, and forcing from your lips, as you sit alone, sudden, insane-sounding interjections.”

      “Caroline!”

      “I do think myself a fool, Shirley, in some respects; I do despise myself. But I said I would not make you my confessor, for you cannot reciprocate foible for foible; you are not weak. How steadily you watch me now! Turn aside your clear, strong, she-eagle eye; it is an insult to fix it on me thus.”

      “What a study of character you are — weak, certainly, but not in the sense you think! — Come in!”

      This was said in answer to a tap at the door. Miss Keeldar happened to be near it at the moment, Caroline at the other end of the room. She saw a note put into Shirley’s hands, and heard the words, “From Mr. Moore, ma’am.”

      “Bring candles,” said Miss Keeldar.

      Caroline sat expectant.

      “A communication on business,” said the heiress; but when candles were brought, she neither opened nor read it. The rector’s Fanny was presently announced, and the rector’s niece went home.

      CHAPTER XIII.

      FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.

      In Shirley’s nature prevailed at times an easy indolence. There were periods when she took delight in perfect vacancy of hand and eye — moments when her thoughts, her simple existence, the fact of the world being around and heaven above her, seemed to yield her such fullness of happiness that she did not need to lift a finger to increase the joy. Often, after an active morning, she would spend a sunny afternoon in lying stirless on the turf, at the foot of some tree of friendly umbrage. No society did she need but that of Caroline, and it sufficed if she were within call; no spectacle did she ask but that of the deep blue sky, and such cloudlets as sailed afar and aloft across its span; no sound but that of the bee’s hum, the leaf’s whisper. Her sole book in such hours was the dim chronicle of memory or the sibyl page of anticipation. From her young eyes fell on each volume a glorious light to read by; round her lips at moments played a smile which revealed glimpses of the tale or prophecy. It was not sad, not dark. Fate had been benign to the blissful dreamer, and promised to favour her yet again. In her past were sweet passages, in her future rosy hopes.

      Yet one day when Caroline drew near to rouse her, thinking she had lain long enough, behold, as she looked down, Shirley’s cheek was wet as if with dew; those fine eyes of hers shone humid and brimming.

      “Shirley, why do you cry?” asked Caroline, involuntarily laying stress on you.

      Miss Keeldar smiled, and turned her picturesque head towards the questioner. “Because it pleases me mightily to cry,” she said. “My heart is both sad and glad. But why, you good, patient child — why do you not bear me company? I only weep tears, delightful and soon wiped away; you might weep gall, if you choose.”

      “Why should I weep gall?”

      “Mateless, solitary bird!” was the only answer.

      “And are not you too mateless, Shirley?”

      “At heart — no.”

      “Oh! who nestles there, Shirley?”

      But Shirley only laughed gaily at this question, and alertly started up.

      “I have dreamed,” she said, “a mere daydream — certainly bright, probably baseless!”

      Miss Helstone was by this time free enough from illusions: she took a sufficiently grave view of the future, and fancied she knew pretty well how her own destiny and that of some others were tending. Yet old associations retained their influence over her, and it was these and the power of habit which still frequently drew her of an evening to the field-style and the old thorn overlooking the Hollow.

      One night, the night after the incident of the note, she had been at her usual post, watching for her beacon — watching vainly: that evening no lamp was lit. She waited till the rising of certain constellations warned her of lateness and signed her away. In passing Fieldhead, on her return, its moonlight beauty attracted her glance, and stayed her step an instant. Tree and hall rose peaceful under the night sky and clear full orb; pearly paleness gilded the building; mellow brown gloom bosomed it round; shadows of deep green brooded above its oak-wreathed roof. The broad pavement in front shone pale also; it gleamed as if some spell had transformed the dark granite to glistering Parian. On the silvery space slept two sable shadows, thrown sharply defined from two human figures. These figures when first seen were motionless and mute; presently they moved in harmonious step, and spoke low in harmonious key. Earnest was the gaze that scrutinized them as they emerged from behind the trunk of the cedar. “Is it Mrs. Pryor and Shirley?”

      Certainly it is Shirley. Who else has a shape so lithe, and proud, and graceful? And her face, too, is visible — her countenance careless and pensive, and musing and mirthful, and mocking and tender. Not fearing the dew, she has not covered her head; her curls are free — they veil her neck and caress her shoulder with their tendril rings. An ornament of gold gleams through the half-closed folds of the scarf she has wrapped across her bust, and a large bright gem glitters on the white hand which confines it. Yes, that is Shirley.

      Her companion then is, of course, Mrs. Pryor?

      Yes, if Mrs. Pryor owns six feet of stature, and if she has changed her decent widow’s weeds for masculine disguise. The figure walking at Miss Keeldar’s side is a man — a tall, young, stately man; it is her tenant, Robert Moore.

      The

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