“Shirley,” Charlotte Bronte’s second novel, was published two
     years after “Jane Eyre”—­on October 26, 1849.  The writing of
     it was a tragedy.  When the book was begun, her brother,
     Branwell, and her two sisters, Emily and Anne Bronte, were
     alive.  When it was finished all were dead, and Charlotte was
     left alone with her aged father.  In the character of Shirley
     Keeldar the novelist tried to depict her sister Emily as she
     would have been had she been placed in health and prosperity. 
     Nearly all the characters were drawn from life, and drawn so
     vividly that they were recognised locally.  Caroline Helstone
     was sketched from Ellen Nussey, Charlotte Bronte’s dearest
     friend, who furnished later much of the material for the best
     biographies of the novelist.  “Shirley” fully sustained at the
     time of its publication, the reputation won through “Jane
     Eyre”; but under the test of time the story—­owing, no doubt,
     to the conditions under which it was written—­has not taken
     rank with that first-fruit of genius, “Jane Eyre,” or that
     consummation of genius, “Villette.”

I.—­In the Dark Days of the War

Released from the business yoke, Robert Moore was, if not lively himself, a willing spectator of the liveliness of Caroline Helstone, his cousin, a complacent listener to her talk, a ready respondent to her questions.  Sometimes he was better than this—­almost animated, quite gentle and friendly.  The drawback was that by the next morning he was frozen up again.

To-night he stood on the kitchen hearth of Hollow’s cottage, after his return from Whinbury cloth-market, and Caroline, who had come over to the cottage from the vicarage, stood beside him.  Looking down, his glance rested on an uplifted face, flushed, smiling, happy, shaded with silky curls, lit with fine eyes.  Moore placed his hand a moment on his young cousin’s shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.

“Are you certain, Robert, you are not fretting about your frames and your business, and the war?” she asked.

“Not just now.”

“Are you positive you don’t feel Hollow’s cottage too small for you, and narrow, and dismal?”

“At this moment, no.”

“Can you affirm that you are not bitter at heart because rich and great people forget you?”

“No more questions.  I am not anxious to curry favour with rich and great people.  I only want means—­a position—­a career.”

“Which your own talent and goodness shall win for you.  You were made to be great; you shall be great.”

“Ah!  You judge me with your heart; you should judge me with your head.”

It was the dark days of the Napoleonic wars, when the cloth of the West Riding was shut out from the markets of the world, and ruin threatened the manufacturers, while the introduction of machinery so reduced the numbers of the factory hands that desperation was born of misery and famine.