The Complete Works: Charlotte, Emily, Anne, Patrick & Branwell Brontë. Anne Bronte
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only wrote on the margin, “Caroline.”
“Now,” said he, smiling, “I trust we are romantic enough. Miss Keeldar,” he continued (the curates, by-the-bye, during this conversation, were too much occupied with their own jokes to notice what passed at the other end of the table), “I hope you are laughing at this trait of ‘exaltation’ in the old gray-headed vicar; but the fact is, I am so used to comply with the requests of this young friend of yours, I don’t know how to refuse her when she tells me to do anything. You would say it is not much in my way to traffic with flowers and forget-me-nots; but, you see, when requested to be sentimental, I am obedient.”
“He is naturally rather sentimental,” remarked Caroline. “Margaret told me so, and I know what pleases him.”
“That you should be good and happy? Yes; that is one of my greatest pleasures. May God long preserve to you the blessings of peace and innocence! By which phrase I mean comparative innocence; for in His sight, I am well aware, none are pure. What to our human perceptions looks spotless as we fancy angels, is to Him but frailty, needing the blood of His Son to cleanse, and the strength of His Spirit to sustain. Let us each and all cherish humility — I, as you, my young friends; and we may well do it when we look into our own hearts, and see there temptations, inconsistencies, propensities, even we blush to recognize. And it is not youth, nor good looks, nor grace, nor any gentle outside charm which makes either beauty or goodness in God’s eyes. — Young ladies, when your mirror or men’s tongues flatter you, remember that, in the sight of her Maker, Mary Ann Ainley — a woman whom neither glass nor lips have ever panegyrized — is fairer and better than either of you. She is indeed,” he added, after a pause — “she is indeed. You young things, wrapt up in yourselves and in earthly hopes, scarcely live as Christ lived. Perhaps you cannot do it yet, while existence is so sweet and earth so smiling to you; it would be too much to expect. She, with meek heart and due reverence, treads close in her Redeemer’s steps.”
Here the harsh voice of Donne broke in on the mild tones of Mr. Hall. “Ahem!” he began, clearing his throat evidently for a speech of some importance — “ahem! Miss Keeldar, your attention an instant, if you please.”
“Well,” said Shirley nonchalantly, “what is it? I listen. All of me is ear that is not eye.”
“I hope part of you is hand also,” returned Donne, in his vulgarly presumptuous and familiar style, “and part purse. It is to the hand and purse I propose to appeal. I came here this morning with a view to beg of you — — “
“You should have gone to Mrs. Gill; she is my almoner.”
“To beg of you a subscription to a school. I and Dr. Boultby intend to erect one in the hamlet of Ecclefigg, which is under our vicarage of Whinbury. The Baptists have got possession of it. They have a chapel there, and we want to dispute the ground.”
“But I have nothing to do with Ecclefigg. I possess no property there.”
“What does that signify? You’re a churchwoman, ain’t you?”
“Admirable creature!” muttered Shirley, under her breath. “Exquisite address! Fine style! What raptures he excites in me!” Then aloud, “I am a churchwoman, certainly.”
“Then you can’t refuse to contribute in this case. The population of Ecclefigg are a parcel of brutes; we want to civilize them.”
“Who is to be the missionary?”
“Myself, probably.”
“You won’t fail through lack of sympathy with your flock.”
“I hope not — I expect success; but we must have money. There is the paper. Pray give a handsome sum.”
When asked for money, Shirley rarely held back. She put down her name for £5. After the £300 she had lately given, and the many smaller sums she was giving constantly, it was as much as she could at present afford. Donne looked at it, declared the subscription “shabby,” and clamorously demanded more. Miss Keeldar flushed up with some indignation and more astonishment.
“At present I shall give no more,” said she.
“Not give more! Why, I expected you to head the list with a cool hundred. With your property, you should never put down a signature for less.”
She was silent.
“In the south,” went on Donne, “a lady with a thousand a year would be ashamed to give five pounds for a public object.”
Shirley, so rarely haughty, looked so now. Her slight frame became nerved; her distinguished face quickened with scorn.
“Strange remarks?” said she — “most inconsiderate! Reproach in return for bounty is misplaced.”
“Bounty! Do you call five pounds bounty?”
“I do; and bounty which, had I not given it to Dr. Boultby’s intended school, of the erection of which I approve, and in no sort to his curate, who seems ill-advised in his manner of applying for, or rather extorting, subscriptions — bounty, I repeat, which, but for this consideration, I should instantly reclaim.”
Donne was thick-skinned. He did not feel all or half that the tone, air, glance of the speaker expressed. He knew not on what ground he stood.
“Wretched place this Yorkshire,” he went on. “I could never have formed an idear of the country had I not seen it. And the people — rich and poor — what a set! How corse and uncultivated! They would be scouted in the south.”
Shirley leaned forwards on the table, her nostrils dilating a little, her taper fingers interlaced and compressing each other hard.
“The rich,” pursued the infatuated and unconscious Donne, “are a parcel of misers, never living as persons with their incomes ought to live. You scarsley” — (you must excuse Mr. Donne’s pronunciation, reader; it was very choice; he considered it genteel, and prided himself on his southern accent; northern ears received with singular sensations his utterance of certain words) — “you scarsley ever see a fam’ly where a propa carriage or a reg’la butla is kep; and as to the poor — just look at them when they come crowding about the church doors on the occasion of a marriage or a funeral, clattering in clogs; the men in their shirt-sleeves and wool-combers’ aprons, the women in mob-caps and bedgowns. They positively deserve that one should turn a mad cow in amongst them to rout their rabble-ranks. He-he! what fun it would be!”
“There! you have reached the climax,” said Shirley quietly. “You have reached the climax,” she repeated, turning her glowing glance towards him. “You cannot go beyond it, and,” she added with emphasis, “you shall not, in my house.”
Up she rose — nobody could control her now, for she was exasperated — straight she walked to her garden gates, wide she flung them open.
“Walk through,” she said austerely, “and pretty quickly, and set foot on this pavement no more.”
Donne was astounded. He had thought all the time he was showing himself off to high advantage, as a lofty-souled person of the first “ton;” he imagined he was producing a crushing impression. Had he not expressed disdain of everything in Yorkshire? What more conclusive proof could be given that he was better than anything there? And yet here was he about to be turned like a dog out of a Yorkshire garden! Where, under such circumstances, was the “concatenation accordingly”?
“Rid me of you instantly — instantly!” reiterated Shirley, as he lingered.
“Madam — a clergyman! turn out a clergyman!”
“Off! Were you an archbishop you have proved yourself no gentleman, and must go. Quick!”
She was quite resolved. There was no trifling with her. Besides, Tartar was again rising; he perceived symptoms of a commotion; he manifested a disposition to join in. There was evidently nothing for it but to go, and Donne made his exodus, the heiress sweeping him a deep curtsy as she closed the gates on him.
“How