MISS BROOKE : CHAPTER I.

Since I can do no good because a woman,rnReach constantly at something that is near it. —_The Maid’s Tragedy:_ BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.rnrnrnMiss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown intornrelief by poor dress. Her hand and wrist were so finely formed that sherncould wear sleeves not less bare of style than those in which thernBlessed Virgin appeared to Italian painters; and her profile as well asrnher stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plainrngarments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her thernimpressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,—or from one of ourrnelder poets,—in a paragraph of to-day’s newspaper. She was usuallyrnspoken of as being remarkably clever, but with the addition that herrnsister Celia had more common-sense. Nevertheless, Celia wore scarcelyrnmore trimmings; and it was only to close observers that her dressrndiffered from her sister’s, and had a shade of coquetry in itsrnarrangements; for Miss Brooke’s plain dressing was due to mixedrnconditions, in most of which her sister shared. The pride of beingrnladies had something to do with it: the Brooke connections, though notrnexactly aristocratic, were unquestionably “good:” if you inquiredrnbackward for a generation or two, you would not find any yard-measuringrnor parcel-tying forefathers—anything lower than an admiral or arnclergyman; and there was even an ancestor discernible as a Puritanrngentleman who served under Cromwell, but afterwards conformed, andrnmanaged to come out of all political troubles as the proprietor of arnrespectable family estate. Young women of such birth, living in a quietrncountry-house, and attending a village church hardly larger than arnparlor, naturally regarded frippery as the ambition of a huckster’srndaughter. Then there was well-bred economy, which in those days madernshow in dress the first item to be deducted from, when any margin wasrnrequired for expenses more distinctive of rank. Such reasons would havernbeen enough to account for plain dress, quite apart from religiousrnfeeling; but in Miss Brooke’s case, religion alone would haverndetermined it; and Celia mildly acquiesced in all her sister’srnsentiments, only infusing them with that common-sense which is able tornaccept momentous doctrines without any eccentric agitation. Dorothearnknew many passages of Pascal’s Pensees and of Jeremy Taylor by heart;rnand to her the destinies of mankind, seen by the light of Christianity,rnmade the solicitudes of feminine fashion appear an occupation forrnBedlam. She could not reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual liferninvolving eternal consequences, with a keen interest in gimp andrnartificial protrusions of drapery. Her mind was theoretic, and yearnedrnby its nature after some lofty conception of the world which mightrnfrankly include the parish of Tipton and her own rule of conduct there;rnshe was enamoured of intensity and greatness, and rash in embracingrnwhatever seemed to her to have those aspects; likely to seek martyrdom,rnto make retractations, and then to incur martyrdom after all in arnquarter where she had not sought it. Certainly such elements in therncharacter of a marriageable girl tended to interfere with her lot, andrnhinder it from being decided according to custom, by good looks,rnvanity, and merely canine affection. With all this, she, the elder ofrnthe sisters, was not yet twenty, and they had both been educated, sincernthey were about twelve years old and had lost their parents, on plansrnat once narrow and promiscuous, first in an English family andrnafterwards in a Swiss family at Lausanne, their bachelor uncle andrnguardian trying in this way to remedy the disadvantages of theirrnorphaned condition.rnrnIt was hardly a year since they had come to live at Tipton Grange withrntheir uncle, a man nearly sixty, of acquiescent temper, miscellaneousrnopinions, and uncertain vote. He had travelled in his younger years,rnand was held in this part of the county to have contracted a toornrambling habit of mind. Mr. Brooke’s conclusions were as difficult tornpredict as the weather: it was only safe to say that he would act withrnbenevolent intentions, and that he would spend as little money asrnpossible in carrying them out. For the most glutinously indefiniternminds enclose some hard grains of habit; and a man has been seen laxrnabout all his own interests except the retention of his snuff-box,rnconcerning which he was watchful, suspicious, and greedy of clutch.rnrnIn Mr. Brooke the hereditary strain of Puritan energy was clearly inrnabeyance; but in his niece Dorothea it glowed alike through faults andrnvirtues, turning sometimes into impatience of her uncle’s talk or hisrnway of “letting things be” on his estate, and making her long all thernmore for the time when she would be of age and have some command ofrnmoney for generous schemes. She was regarded as an heiress; for notrnonly had the sisters seven hundred a-year each from their parents, butrnif Dorothea married and had a son, that son would inherit Mr. Brooke’srnestate, presumably worth about three thousand a-year—a rental whichrnseemed wealth to provincial families, still discussing Mr. Peel’s laternconduct on the Catholic question, innocent of future gold-fields, andrnof that gorgeous plutocracy which has so nobly exalted the necessitiesrnof genteel life.rnrnAnd how should Dorothea not marry?—a girl so handsome and with suchrnprospects? Nothing could hinder it but her love of extremes, and herrninsistence on regulating life according to notions which might cause arnwary man to hesitate before he made her an offer, or even might leadrnher at last to refuse all offers. A young lady of some birth andrnfortune, who knelt suddenly down on a brick floor by the side of a sickrnlaborer and prayed fervidly as if she thought herself living in therntime of the Apostles—who had strange whims of fasting like a Papist,rnand of sitting up at night to read old theological books! Such a wifernmight awaken you some fine morning with a new scheme for thernapplication of her income which would interfere with political economyrnand the keeping of saddle-horses: a man would naturally think twicernbefore he risked himself in such fellowship. Women were expected tornhave weak opinions; but the great safeguard of society and of domesticrnlife was, that opinions were not acted on. Sane people did what theirrnneighbors did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might knowrnand avoid them.rnrnThe rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among the cottagers,rnwas generally in favor of Celia, as being so amiable andrninnocent-looking, while Miss Brooke’s large eyes seemed, like herrnreligion, too unusual and striking. Poor Dorothea! compared with her,rnthe innocent-looking Celia was knowing and worldly-wise; so muchrnsubtler is a human mind than the outside tissues which make a sort ofrnblazonry or clock-face for it.rnrnYet those who approached Dorothea, though prejudiced against her byrnthis alarming hearsay, found that she had a charm unaccountablyrnreconcilable with it. Most men thought her bewitching when she was onrnhorseback. She loved the fresh air and the various aspects of therncountry, and when her eyes and cheeks glowed with mingled pleasure shernlooked very little like a devotee. Riding was an indulgence which shernallowed herself in spite of conscientious qualms; she felt that shernenjoyed it in a pagan sensuous way, and always looked forward tornrenouncing it.rnrnShe was open, ardent, and not in the least self-admiring; indeed, itrnwas pretty to see how her imagination adorned her sister Celia withrnattractions altogether superior to her own, and if any gentlemanrnappeared to come to the Grange from some other motive than that ofrnseeing Mr. Brooke, she concluded that he must be in love with Celia:rnSir James Chettam, for example, whom she constantly considered fromrnCelia’s point of view, inwardly debating whether it would be good forrnCelia to accept him. That he should be regarded as a suitor to herselfrnwould have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorothea, with allrnher eagerness to know the truths of life, retained very childlike ideasrnabout marriage. She felt sure that she would have accepted thernjudicious Hooker, if she had been born in time to save him from thatrnwretched mistake he made in matrimony; or John Milton when hisrnblindness had come on; or any of the other great men whose odd habitsrnit would have been glorious piety to endure; but an amiable handsomernbaronet, who said “Exactly” to her remarks even when she expressedrnuncertainty,—how could he affect her as a lover? The really delightfulrnmarriage must be that where your husband was a sort of father, andrncould teach you even Hebrew, if you wished it.rnrnThese peculiarities of Dorothea’s character caused Mr. Brooke to be allrnthe more blamed in neighboring families for not securing somernmiddle-aged lady as guide and companion to his nieces. But he himselfrndreaded so much the sort of superior woman likely to be available forrnsuch a position, that he allowed himself to be dissuaded by Dorothea’srnobjections, and was in this case brave enough to defy the world—that isrnto say, Mrs. Cadwallader the Rector’s wife, and the small group ofrngentry with whom he visited in the northeast corner of Loamshire. SornMiss Brooke presided in her uncle’s household, and did not at allrndislike her new authority, with the homage that belonged to it.rnrnSir James Chettam was going to dine at the Grange to-day with anotherrngentleman whom the girls had never seen, and about whom Dorothea feltrnsome venerating expectation. This was the Reverend Edward Casaubon,rnnoted in the county as a man of profound learning, understood for manyrnyears to be engaged on a great work concerning religious history; alsornas a man of wealth enough to give lustre to his piety, and having viewsrnof his own which were to be more clearly ascertained on the publicationrnof his book. His very name carried an impressiveness hardly to bernmeasured without a precise chronology of scholarship.rnrnEarly in the day Dorothea had returned from the infant school which shernhad set going in the village, and was taking her usual place in thernpretty sitting-room which divided the bedrooms of the sisters, bent onrnfinishing a plan for some buildings (a kind of work which she delightedrnin), when Celia, who had been watching her with a hesitating desire tornpropose something, said—rnrn“Dorothea, dear, if you don’t mind—if you are not very busy—suppose wernlooked at mamma’s jewels to-day, and divided them? It is exactly sixrnmonths to-day since uncle gave them to you, and you have not looked atrnthem yet.”rnrnCelia’s face had the shadow of a pouting expression in it, the fullrnpresence of the pout being kept back by an habitual awe of Dorothea andrnprinciple; two associated facts which might show a mysteriousrnelectricity if you touched them incautiously. To her relief, Dorothea’srneyes were full of laughter as she looked up.rnrn“What a wonderful little almanac you are, Celia! Is it six calendar orrnsix lunar months?”rnrn“It is the last day of September now, and it was the first of Aprilrnwhen uncle gave them to you. You know, he said that he had forgottenrnthem till then. I believe you have never thought of them since yournlocked them up in the cabinet here.”rnrn“Well, dear, we should never wear them, you know.” Dorothea spoke in arnfull cordial tone, half caressing, half explanatory. She had her pencilrnin her hand, and was making tiny side-plans on a margin.rnrnCelia colored, and looked very grave. “I think, dear, we are wanting inrnrespect to mamma’s memory, to put them by and take no notice of them.rnAnd,” she added, after hesitating a little, with a rising sob ofrnmortification, “necklaces are quite usual now; and Madame Poincon, whornwas stricter in some things even than you are, used to wear ornaments.rnAnd Christians generally—surely there are women in heaven now who worernjewels.” Celia was conscious of some mental strength when she reallyrnapplied herself to argument.rnrn“You would like to wear them?” exclaimed Dorothea, an air of astonishedrndiscovery animating her whole person with a dramatic action which shernhad caught from that very Madame Poincon who wore the ornaments. “Ofrncourse, then, let us have them out. Why did you not tell me before? Butrnthe keys, the keys!” She pressed her hands against the sides of herrnhead and seemed to despair of her memory.rnrn“They are here,” said Celia, with whom this explanation had been longrnmeditated and prearranged.rnrn“Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and get out the jewel-box.”rnrnThe casket was soon open before them, and the various jewels spreadrnout, making a bright parterre on the table. It was no great collection,rnbut a few of the ornaments were really of remarkable beauty, the finestrnthat was obvious at first being a necklace of purple amethysts set inrnexquisite gold work, and a pearl cross with five brilliants in it.rnDorothea immediately took up the necklace and fastened it round herrnsister’s neck, where it fitted almost as closely as a bracelet; but therncircle suited the Henrietta-Maria style of Celia’s head and neck, andrnshe could see that it did, in the pier-glass opposite.rnrn“There, Celia! you can wear that with your Indian muslin. But thisrncross you must wear with your dark dresses.”rnrnCelia was trying not to smile with pleasure. “O Dodo, you must keep therncross yourself.”rnrn“No, no, dear, no,” said Dorothea, putting up her hand with carelessrndeprecation.rnrn“Yes, indeed you must; it would suit you—in your black dress, now,”rnsaid Celia, insistingly. “You _might_ wear that.”rnrn“Not for the world, not for the world. A cross is the last thing Irnwould wear as a trinket.” Dorothea shuddered slightly.rnrn“Then you will think it wicked in me to wear it,” said Celia, uneasily.rnrn“No, dear, no,” said Dorothea, stroking her sister’s cheek. “Souls haverncomplexions too: what will suit one will not suit another.”rnrn“But you might like to keep it for mamma’s sake.”rnrn“No, I have other things of mamma’s—her sandal-wood box which I am sornfond of—plenty of things. In fact, they are all yours, dear. We needrndiscuss them no longer. There—take away your property.”rnrnCelia felt a little hurt. There was a strong assumption of superiorityrnin this Puritanic toleration, hardly less trying to the blond flesh ofrnan unenthusiastic sister than a Puritanic persecution.rnrn“But how can I wear ornaments if you, who are the elder sister, willrnnever wear them?”rnrn“Nay, Celia, that is too much to ask, that I should wear trinkets tornkeep you in countenance. If I were to put on such a necklace as that, Irnshould feel as if I had been pirouetting. The world would go round withrnme, and I should not know how to walk.”rnrnCelia had unclasped the necklace and drawn it off. “It would be arnlittle tight for your neck; something to lie down and hang would suitrnyou better,” she said, with some satisfaction. The complete unfitnessrnof the necklace from all points of view for Dorothea, made Celiarnhappier in taking it. She was opening some ring-boxes, which disclosedrna fine emerald with diamonds, and just then the sun passing beyond arncloud sent a bright gleam over the table.rnrn“How very beautiful these gems are!” said Dorothea, under a new currentrnof feeling, as sudden as the gleam. “It is strange how deeply colorsrnseem to penetrate one, like scent. I suppose that is the reason whyrngems are used as spiritual emblems in the Revelation of St. John. Theyrnlook like fragments of heaven. I think that emerald is more beautifulrnthan any of them.”rnrn“And there is a bracelet to match it,” said Celia. “We did not noticernthis at first.”rnrn“They are lovely,” said Dorothea, slipping the ring and bracelet on herrnfinely turned finger and wrist, and holding them towards the window onrna level with her eyes. All the while her thought was trying to justifyrnher delight in the colors by merging them in her mystic religious joy.rnrn“You _would_ like those, Dorothea,” said Celia, rather falteringly,rnbeginning to think with wonder that her sister showed some weakness,rnand also that emeralds would suit her own complexion even better thanrnpurple amethysts. “You must keep that ring and bracelet—if nothingrnelse. But see, these agates are very pretty and quiet.”rnrn“Yes! I will keep these—this ring and bracelet,” said Dorothea. Then,rnletting her hand fall on the table, she said in another tone—“Yet whatrnmiserable men find such things, and work at them, and sell them!” Shernpaused again, and Celia thought that her sister was going to renouncernthe ornaments, as in consistency she ought to do.rnrn“Yes, dear, I will keep these,” said Dorothea, decidedly. “But take allrnthe rest away, and the casket.”rnrnShe took up her pencil without removing the jewels, and still lookingrnat them. She thought of often having them by her, to feed her eye atrnthese little fountains of pure color.rnrn“Shall you wear them in company?” said Celia, who was watching her withrnreal curiosity as to what she would do.rnrnDorothea glanced quickly at her sister. Across all her imaginativernadornment of those whom she loved, there darted now and then a keenrndiscernment, which was not without a scorching quality. If Miss Brookernever attained perfect meekness, it would not be for lack of inwardrnfire.rnrn“Perhaps,” she said, rather haughtily. “I cannot tell to what level Irnmay sink.”rnrnCelia blushed, and was unhappy: she saw that she had offended herrnsister, and dared not say even anything pretty about the gift of thernornaments which she put back into the box and carried away. Dorothearntoo was unhappy, as she went on with her plan-drawing, questioning thernpurity of her own feeling and speech in the scene which had ended withrnthat little explosion.rnrnCelia’s consciousness told her that she had not been at all in thernwrong: it was quite natural and justifiable that she should have askedrnthat question, and she repeated to herself that Dorothea wasrninconsistent: either she should have taken her full share of thernjewels, or, after what she had said, she should have renounced themrnaltogether.rnrn“I am sure—at least, I trust,” thought Celia, “that the wearing of arnnecklace will not interfere with my prayers. And I do not see that Irnshould be bound by Dorothea’s opinions now we are going into society,rnthough of course she herself ought to be bound by them. But Dorothea isrnnot always consistent.”rnrnThus Celia, mutely bending over her tapestry, until she heard herrnsister calling her.rnrn“Here, Kitty, come and look at my plan; I shall think I am a greatrnarchitect, if I have not got incompatible stairs and fireplaces.”rnrnAs Celia bent over the paper, Dorothea put her cheek against herrnsister’s arm caressingly. Celia understood the action. Dorothea sawrnthat she had been in the wrong, and Celia pardoned her. Since theyrncould remember, there had been a mixture of criticism and awe in thernattitude of Celia’s mind towards her elder sister. The younger hadrnalways worn a yoke; but is there any yoked creature without its privaternopinions?