Chapter I
Since I can do no good because a woman,
Reach constantly at something that is near it.
The Maid's Tragedy: BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be
thrown into relief by poor dress. Her hand and wrist were
so finely formed that she could wear sleeves not less bare
of style than those in which the Blessed Virgin appeared to
Italian painters; and her profile as well as her stature and
bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain
garments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her
the impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible, — or
from one of our elder poets, — in a paragraph of to-day's
newspaper. She was usually spoken of as being remarkably
clever, but with the addition that her sister Celia had more
common-sense. Nevertheless, Celia wore scarcely more
trimmings; and it was only to close observers that her dress
differed from her sister's, and had a shade of coquetry in
its arrangements; for Miss Brooke's plain dressing was due
to mixed conditions, in most of which her sister shared.
The pride of being ladies had something to do with it: the
Brooke connections, though not exactly aristocratic, were
unquestionably "good:" if you inquired backward for a
generation or two, you would not find any yard-measuring or
parcel-tying forefathers — anything lower than an admiral or
a clergyman; and there was even an ancestor discernible as a
Puritan gentleman who served under
Cromwell, but
afterwards conformed, and managed to come out of all
political troubles as the proprietor of a respectable family
estate. Young women of such birth, living in a quiet
country-house, and attending a village church hardly larger
than a parlor, naturally regarded frippery as the ambition
of a huckster's daughter. Then there was well-bred economy,
which in those days made show in dress the first item to be
deducted from, when any margin was required for expenses
more distinctive of rank. Such reasons would have been
enough to account for plain dress, quite apart from
religious feeling; but in Miss Brooke's case, religion alone
would have determined it; and Celia mildly acquiesced in all
her sister's sentiments, only infusing them with that
common-sense which is able to accept momentous doctrines
without any eccentric agitation. Dorothea knew many
passages of Pascal's
Pensees and of Jeremy Taylor by
heart; and to her the destinies of mankind, seen by the
light of Christianity, made the solicitudes of feminine
fashion appear an occupation for Bedlam. She could not
reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual life involving
eternal consequences, with a keen interest in gimp and
artificial protrusions of drapery. Her mind was theoretic,
and yearned by its nature after some lofty conception of the
world which might frankly include the parish of Tipton and
her own rule of conduct there; she was enamoured of
intensity and greatness, and rash in embracing whatever
seemed to her to have those aspects; likely to seek
martyrdom, to make retractations, and then to incur
martyrdom after all in a quarter where she had not sought
it. Certainly such elements in the character of a
marriageable girl tended to interfere with her lot, and
hinder it from being decided according to custom, by good
looks, vanity, and merely canine affection. With all this,
she, the elder of the sisters, was not yet twenty, and they
had both been educated, since they were about twelve years
old and had lost their parents, on plans at once narrow and
promiscuous, first in an English family and afterwards in a
Swiss family at Lausanne, their bachelor uncle and guardian
trying in this way to remedy the disadvantages of their
orphaned condition.
It was hardly a year since they had come to live at
Tipton Grange with their uncle, a man nearly sixty, of
acquiescent temper, miscellaneous opinions, and uncertain
vote. He had travelled in his younger years, and was held
in this part of the county to have contracted a too rambling
habit of mind. Mr. Brooke's conclusions were as difficult
to predict as the weather: it was only safe to say that he
would act with benevolent intentions, and that he would
spend as little money as possible in carrying them out. For
the most glutinously indefinite minds enclose some hard
grains of habit; and a man has been seen lax about all his
own interests except the retention of his snuff-box,
concerning which he was watchful, suspicious, and greedy of
clutch.
In Mr. Brooke the hereditary strain of Puritan energy
was clearly in abeyance; but in his niece Dorothea it glowed
alike through faults and virtues, turning sometimes into
impatience of her uncle's talk or his way of "letting things
be" on his estate, and making her long all the more for the
time when she would be of age and have some command of money
for generous schemes. She was regarded as an heiress; for
not only had the sisters seven hundred a-year each from
their parents, but if Dorothea married and had a son, that
son would inherit Mr. Brooke's estate, presumably worth
about three thousand a-year — a rental which seemed wealth to
provincial families, still discussing Mr. Peel's late
conduct on the Catholic question, innocent of future gold-fields, and of that gorgeous plutocracy which has so nobly
exalted the necessities of genteel life.
And how should Dorothea not marry? — a girl so handsome
and with such prospects? Nothing could hinder it but her
love of extremes, and her insistence on regulating life
according to notions which might cause a wary man to
hesitate before he made her an offer, or even might lead her
at last to refuse all offers. A young lady of some birth
and fortune, who knelt suddenly down on a brick floor by the
side of a sick laborer and prayed fervidly as if she thought
herself living in the time of the Apostles — who had strange
whims of fasting like a Papist, and of sitting up at night
to read old theological
books! Such a wife might awaken
you some fine morning with a new scheme for the application
of her income which would interfere with political economy
and the keeping of saddle-horses: a man would naturally
think twice before he risked himself in such fellowship.
Women were expected to have weak opinions; but the great
safeguard of society and of domestic life was, that opinions
were not acted on. Sane people did what their neighbors
did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might know
and avoid them.
The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among
the cottagers, was generally in favor of Celia, as being so
amiable and innocent-looking, while Miss Brooke's large eyes
seemed, like her religion, too unusual and striking. Poor
Dorothea! compared with her, the innocent-looking Celia was
knowing and worldly-wise; so much subtler is a human mind
than the outside tissues which make a sort of blazonry or
clock-face for it.
Yet those who approached Dorothea, though prejudiced
against her by this alarming hearsay, found that she had a
charm unaccountably reconcilable with it. Most men thought
her bewitching when she was on horseback. She loved the
fresh air and the various aspects of the country, and when
her eyes and cheeks glowed with mingled pleasure she looked
very little like a devotee. Riding was an indulgence which
she allowed herself in spite of conscientious qualms; she
felt that she enjoyed it in a pagan sensuous way, and always
looked forward to renouncing it.
She was open, ardent, and not in the least self-admiring; indeed, it was pretty to see how her imagination
adorned her sister Celia with attractions altogether
superior to her own, and if any gentleman appeared to come
to the Grange from some other motive than that of seeing Mr.
Brooke, she concluded that he must be in love with Celia:
Sir James Chettam, for example, whom she constantly
considered from Celia's point of view, inwardly debating
whether it would be good for Celia to accept him. That he
should be regarded as a suitor to herself would have seemed
to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorothea, with all her
eagerness to know the truths of life,
retained very
childlike ideas about marriage. She felt sure that she
would have accepted the judicious Hooker, if she had been
born in time to save him from that wretched mistake he made
in matrimony; or John Milton when his blindness had come on;
or any of the other great men whose odd habits it would have
been glorious piety to endure; but an amiable handsome
baronet, who said "Exactly" to her remarks even when she
expressed uncertainty, — how could he affect her as a lover?
The really delightful marriage must be that where your
husband was a sort of father, and could teach you even
Hebrew, if you wished it.
These peculiarities of Dorothea's character caused Mr.
Brooke to be all the more blamed in neighboring families for
not securing some middle-aged lady as guide and companion to
his nieces. But he himself dreaded so much the sort of
superior woman likely to be available for such a position,
that he allowed himself to be dissuaded by Dorothea's
objections, and was in this case brave enough to defy the
world — that is to say, Mrs. Cadwallader the Rector's wife,
and the small group of gentry with whom he visited in the
northeast corner of Loamshire. So Miss Brooke presided in
her uncle's household, and did not at all dislike her new
authority, with the homage that belonged to it.
Sir James Chettam was going to dine at the Grange to-day
with another gentleman whom the girls had never seen, and
about whom Dorothea felt some venerating expectation. This
was the Reverend Edward Casaubon, noted in the county as a
man of profound learning, understood for many years to be
engaged on a great work concerning religious history; also
as a man of wealth enough to give lustre to his piety, and
having views of his own which were to be more clearly
ascertained on the publication of his book. His very name
carried an impressiveness hardly to be measured without a
precise chronology of scholarship.
Early in the day Dorothea had returned from the infant
school which she had set going in the village, and was
taking her usual place in the pretty sitting-room which
divided the bedrooms of the sisters, bent on finishing a
plan for some
buildings (a kind of work which she
delighted in), when Celia, who had been watching her with a
hesitating desire to propose something, said —
"Dorothea, dear, if you don't mind — if you are not very
busy — suppose we looked at mamma's jewels to-day, and
divided them? It is exactly six months to-day since uncle
gave them to you, and you have not looked at them yet."
Celia's face had the shadow of a pouting expression in
it, the full presence of the pout being kept back by an
habitual awe of Dorothea and principle; two associated facts
which might show a mysterious electricity if you touched
them incautiously. To her relief, Dorothea's eyes were full
of laughter as she looked up.
"What a wonderful little almanac you are, Celia! Is it
six calendar or six lunar months?"
"It is the last day of September now, and it was the
first of April when uncle gave them to you. You know, he
said that he had forgotten them till then. I believe you
have never thought of them since you locked them up in the
cabinet here."
"Well, dear, we should never wear them, you know."
Dorothea spoke in a full cordial tone, half caressing, half
explanatory. She had her pencil in her hand, and was making
tiny side-plans on a margin.
Celia colored, and looked very grave. "I think, dear,
we are wanting in respect to mamma's memory, to put them by
and take no notice of them. And," she added, after
hesitating a little, with a rising sob of mortification,
"necklaces are quite usual now; and Madame Poincon, who was
stricter in some things even than you are, used to wear
ornaments. And Christians generally — surely there are women
in heaven now who wore jewels." Celia was conscious of some
mental strength when she really applied herself to argument.
"You would like to wear them?" exclaimed Dorothea, an
air of astonished discovery animating her whole person with
a dramatic action which she had caught from that very Madame
Poincon who wore the ornaments. "Of course, then, let us
have them out. Why did you not tell me before? But the
keys, the keys!" She pressed her hands against the
sides of her head and seemed to despair of her memory.
"They are here," said Celia, with whom this explanation
had been long meditated and prearranged.
"Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and get out
the jewel-box."
The casket was soon open before them, and the various
jewels spread out, making a bright parterre on the table.
It was no great collection, but a few of the ornaments were
really of remarkable beauty, the finest that was obvious at
first being a necklace of purple amethysts set in exquisite
gold work, and a pearl cross with five brilliants in it.
Dorothea immediately took up the necklace and fastened it
round her sister's neck, where it fitted almost as closely
as a bracelet; but the circle suited the Henrietta-Maria
style of Celia's head and neck, and she could see that it
did, in the pier-glass opposite.
"There, Celia! you can wear that with your Indian
muslin. But this cross you must wear with your dark
dresses."
Celia was trying not to smile with pleasure. "O Dodo,
you must keep the cross yourself."
"No, no, dear, no," said Dorothea, putting up her hand
with careless deprecation.
"Yes, indeed you must; it would suit you — in your black
dress, now," said Celia, insistingly. "You might wear
that."
"Not for the world, not for the world. A cross is the
last thing I would wear as a trinket." Dorothea shuddered
slightly.
"Then you will think it wicked in me to wear it," said
Celia, uneasily.
"No, dear, no," said Dorothea, stroking her sister's
cheek. "Souls have complexions too: what will suit one will
not suit another."
"But you might like to keep it for mamma's sake."
"No, I have other things of mamma's — her sandal-wood box
which I am so fond of — plenty of things. In fact, they are
all yours, dear. We need discuss them no longer. There —
take away your property."
Celia felt a little hurt. There was a strong assumption
of
superiority in this Puritanic toleration, hardly less
trying to the blond flesh of an unenthusiastic sister than a
Puritanic persecution.
"But how can I wear ornaments if you, who are the elder
sister, will never wear them?"
"Nay, Celia, that is too much to ask, that I should wear
trinkets to keep you in countenance. If I were to put on
such a necklace as that, I should feel as if I had been
pirouetting. The world would go round with me, and I should
not know how to walk."
Celia had unclasped the necklace and drawn it off. "It
would be a little tight for your neck; something to lie down
and hang would suit you better," she said, with some
satisfaction. The complete unfitness of the necklace from
all points of view for Dorothea, made Celia happier in
taking it. She was opening some ring-boxes, which disclosed
a fine emerald with diamonds, and just then the sun passing
beyond a cloud sent a bright gleam over the table.
"How very beautiful these gems are!" said Dorothea,
under a new current of feeling, as sudden as the gleam. "It
is strange how deeply colors seem to penetrate one, like
scent. I suppose that is the reason why gems are used as
spiritual emblems in the Revelation of St. John. They look
like fragments of heaven. I think that emerald is more
beautiful than any of them."
"And there is a bracelet to match it," said Celia. "We
did not notice this at first."
"They are lovely," said Dorothea, slipping the ring and
bracelet on her finely turned finger and wrist, and holding
them towards the window on a level with her eyes. All the
while her thought was trying to justify her delight in the
colors by merging them in her mystic religious joy.
"You would like those, Dorothea," said Celia, rather
falteringly, beginning to think with wonder that her sister
showed some weakness, and also that emeralds would suit her
own complexion even better than purple amethysts. "You must
keep that ring and bracelet — if nothing else. But see,
these agates are very pretty and quiet."
"Yes! I will keep these — this ring and bracelet," said
Dorothea. Then, letting her hand fall on the table, she
said in another tone — "Yet what miserable men find such
things, and work at them, and sell them!" She paused again,
and Celia thought that her sister was going to renounce the
ornaments, as in consistency she ought to do.
"Yes, dear, I will keep these," said Dorothea,
decidedly. "But take all the rest away, and the casket."
She took up her pencil without removing the jewels, and
still looking at them. She thought of often having them by
her, to feed her eye at these little fountains of pure
color.
"Shall you wear them in company?" said Celia, who was
watching her with real curiosity as to what she would do.
Dorothea glanced quickly at her sister. Across all her
imaginative adornment of those whom she loved, there darted
now and then a keen discernment, which was not without a
scorching quality. If Miss Brooke ever attained perfect
meekness, it would not be for lack of inward fire.
"Perhaps," she said, rather haughtily. "I cannot tell
to what level I may sink."
Celia blushed, and was unhappy: she saw that she had
offended her sister, and dared not say even anything pretty
about the gift of the ornaments which she put back into the
box and carried away. Dorothea too was unhappy, as she went
on with her plan-drawing, questioning the purity of her own
feeling and speech in the scene which had ended with that
little explosion.
Celia's consciousness told her that she had not been at
all in the wrong: it was quite natural and justifiable that
she should have asked that question, and she repeated to
herself that Dorothea was inconsistent: either she should
have taken her full share of the jewels, or, after what she
had said, she should have renounced them altogether.
"I am sure — at least, I trust," thought Celia, "that the
wearing of a necklace will not interfere with my prayers.
And I do not see that I should be bound by Dorothea's
opinions now we are going into society, though of course she
herself ought to be bound by them. But Dorothea is not
always consistent."
Thus Celia, mutely bending over her tapestry, until she
heard her sister calling her.
"Here, Kitty, come and look at my plan; I shall think I
am a great architect, if I have not got incompatible stairs
and fireplaces."
As Celia bent over the paper, Dorothea put her cheek
against her sister's arm caressingly. Celia understood the
action. Dorothea saw that she had been in the wrong, and
Celia pardoned her. Since they could remember, there had
been a mixture of criticism and awe in the attitude of
Celia's mind towards her elder sister. The younger had
always worn a yoke; but is there any yoked creature without
its private opinions?