Shirley

precisely in that state, when, if her constitution had contained the seeds of consumption, decline, or slow fever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, and would soon have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love or grief alone; though some die of inherent maladies, which the tortures of those passions prematurely force into destructive action. The sound by nature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered: their beauty and bloom perish, but life remains untouched. They are brought to a certain point of dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility, and emaciation. People think, as they see them gliding languidly about, that they will soon withdraw to sickbeds, perish there, and cease from among the healthy and happy. This does not happen: they live on; and though they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and serenity. The blossom which the March wind nips, but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a withered apple on the tree late into autumn: having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of winter.
    Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and most people said she was going to die. She never thought so herself: she felt in no dying case; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her appetite was diminished; she knew the reason: it was because she wept so much at night. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it; sleep was coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful. In the far future she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of misery should be got over, and when she should once more be calm, though perhaps never again happy.
    Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit; to comply with the frequent invitations of their acquaintance: this she evaded doing; she could not be cheerful in company: she felt she was observed there with more curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her their advice, recommending this or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her in a way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they knew she had been »disappointed,« as custom phrases it: by whom, they were not certain.
    Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as commonplace young gentlemen, – quite as worldly and selfish. Those who suffer should always avoid them; grief and calamity they despise: they seem to regard them as the judgments of God on the lowly. With them to ›love‹ is merely to contrive a scheme for achieving a good match: to be ›disappointed‹ is to have their scheme seen through and frustrated. They think the feelings and projects of others on the subject of love, similar to their own, and judge them accordingly.
    All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly by observation: she regulated her conduct by her knowledge, keeping her pale face and wasted figure as much out of sight as she could. Living thus in complete seclusion, she ceased to receive intelligence of the little transactions of the neighbourhood.
    One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she sat endeavouring to find some pleasure in painting a little group of wild flowers, gathered under a hedge at the top of the Hollow fields, and said to her in his abrupt manner: –
    »Come, child, you are always stooping over palette, or book, or sampler: leave that tinting work. By-the-by, do you put your pencil to your lips when you paint?«
    »Sometimes, uncle, when I forget.«
    »Then it is that which is poisoning you. The paints are deleterious, child: there is white lead, and red lead, and verdigris, and gamboge, and twenty other poisons in those colour cakes. Lock them up! lock them up! Get your bonnet on: I want you to make a call with me.«
    »With
you,
uncle?«
    This question was asked in a tone of surprise. She was not accustomed to make calls with her uncle: she never rode or walked out with him on any occasion.
    »Quick! quick! I am always busy, you know: I have no time to lose.«
    She hurriedly gathered up her materials, asking, meantime, where they were going.
    »To Fieldhead.«
    »Fieldhead! What, to see old James Booth, the gardener? Is he ill?«
    »We are going to see Miss Shirley Keeldar?«
    »Miss Keeldar! Is she come to Yorkshire? Is she at Fieldhead?«
    »She is. She has been there a week. I met her at a party last night; – that party to which you would not go. I was pleased with her: I choose that you shall make her acquaintance: it will do you