Title: 
Author: 
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0608351.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: November 2006
Date most recently updated: November 2006

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this
file.

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at
http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html

To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Title: Shirley
Author: Charlotte Bronte




Table of Contents

 1. Levitical
 2. The Wagons
 3. Mr. Yorke
 4. Mr. Yorke (Continued)
 5. Hollow's Cottage
 6. Coriolanus
 7. The Curates at Tea
 8. Noah and Moses
 9. Briarmains
10. Old Maids
11. Fieldhead
12. Shirley and Caroline
13. Further Communications on Business
14. Shirley Seeks to Be Saved by Works
15. Mr. Donne's Exodus
16. Whitsuntide
17. The School-Feast
18. Which the Genteel Reader is Recommended to Skip, Low Persons
     Being Here Introduced
19. A Summer Night
20. To-Morrow
21. Mrs. Pryor
22. Two Lives
23. An Evening Out
24. The Valley of the Shadow of Death
25. The West Wind Blows
26. Old Copy-Books
27. The First Blue-Stocking
28. Phoebe
29. Louis Moore
30. Rushedge, a Confessional
31. Uncle and Niece
32. The Schoolboy and the Wood-Nymph
33. Martin's Tactics
34. Case of Domestic Persecution--Remarkable Instance of Pious
     Perseverance in the Discharge of Religious Duties
35. Wherein Matters Make Some Progress, But Not Much
36. Written in the Schoolroom
37. The Winding-Up





Chapter 1 - Levitical


Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of
England: they lie very thick on the hills; every parish has one or more
of them; they are young enough to be very active, and ought to be doing a
great deal of good. But not of late years are we about to speak; we are
going back to the beginning of this century: late years--present years
are dusty, sunburnt, hot, arid; we will evade the noon, forget it in
siesta, pass the midday in slumber, and dream of dawn.

If you think, from this prelude, that anything like a romance is
preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. Do you
anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expect passion, and
stimulus, and melodrama? Calm your expectations; reduce them to a lowly
standard. Something real, cool and solid lies before you; something
unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the
consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto. It is
not positively affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting,
perhaps towards the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that
the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic--ay, even
an Anglo-Catholic--might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week: it shall be
cold lentils and vinegar without oil; it shall be unleavened bread with
bitter herbs, and no roast lamb.

Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the
north of England, but in eighteen-hundred-eleven-twelve that affluent
rain had not descended. Curates were scarce then: there was no Pastoral
Aid--no Additional Curates' Society to stretch a helping hand to
worn-out old rectors and incumbents, and give them the wherewithal to
pay a vigorous young colleague from Oxford or Cambridge. The present
successors of the apostles, disciples of Dr. Pusey and tools of the
Propaganda, were at that time being hatched under cradle-blankets, or
undergoing regeneration by nursery-baptism in wash-hand basins. You
could not have guessed by looking at any one of them that the
Italian-ironed double frills of its net-cap surrounded the brows of a
preordained, specially-sanctified successor of St. Paul, St. Peter, or
St. John; nor could you have foreseen in the folds of its long nightgown
the white surplice in which it was hereafter cruelly to exercise the
souls of its parishioners, and strangely to nonplus its old-fashioned
vicar by flourishing aloft in a pulpit the shirt-like raiment which had
never before waved higher than the reading-desk.

Yet even in those days of scarcity there were curates: the precious plant
was rare, but it might be found. A certain favoured district in the West
Riding of Yorkshire could boast three rods of Aaron blossoming within a
circuit of twenty miles. You shall see them, reader. Step into this neat
garden-house on the skirts of Whinbury, walk forward into the little
parlour. There they are at dinner. Allow me to introduce them to you: Mr.
Donne, curate of Whinbury; Mr. Malone, curate of Briarfield; Mr.
Sweeting, curate of Nunnely. These are Mr. Donne's lodgings, being the
habitation of one John Gale, a small clothier. Mr. Donne has kindly
invited his brethren to regale with him. You and I will join the party,
see what is to be seen, and hear what is to be heard. At present,
however, they are only eating; and while they eat we will talk aside.

These gentlemen are in the bloom of youth; they possess all the activity
of that interesting age--an activity which their moping old vicars would
fain turn into the channel of their pastoral duties, often expressing a
wish to see it expended in a diligent superintendence of the schools, and
in frequent visits to the sick of their respective parishes. But the
youthful Levites feel this to be dull work; they prefer lavishing their
energies on a course of proceeding which, though to other eyes it appear
more heavy with ennui, more cursed with monotony, than the toil of the
weaver at his loom, seems to yield them an unfailing supply of enjoyment
and occupation.

I allude to a rushing backwards and forwards, amongst themselves, to and
from their respective lodgings--not a round, but a triangle of visits,
which they keep up all the year through, in winter, spring, summer, and
autumn. Season and weather make no difference; with unintelligible zeal
they dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire and dust, to go and dine, or
drink tea, or sup with each other. What attracts them it would be
difficult to say. It is not friendship, for whenever they meet they
quarrel. It is not religion--the thing is never named amongst them;
theology they may discuss occasionally, but piety--never. It is not the
love of eating and drinking: each might have as good a joint and pudding,
tea as potent, and toast as succulent, at his own lodgings, as is served
to him at his brother's. Mrs. Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and Mrs. Whipp--their
respective landladies--affirm that 'it is just for naught else but to
give folk trouble.' By 'folk' the good ladies of course mean themselves,
for indeed they are kept in a continual 'fry' by this system of mutual
invasion.

Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner; Mrs. Gale waits
on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers
that the privilege of inviting a friend to a meal occasionally, without
additional charge (a privilege included in the terms on which she lets
her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of late. The present
week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday Mr. Malone, the curate of
Briarfield, came to breakfast and stayed dinner; on Tuesday Mr. Malone
and Mr. Sweeting of Nunnely came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the
spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast on Wednesday
morning; now, on Thursday, they are both here at dinner, and she is
almost certain they will stay all night. 'C'en est trop,' she would say,
if she could speak French.

Mr. Sweeting is mincing the slice of roast beef on his plate, and
complaining that it is very tough; Mr. Donne says the beer is flat. Ay,
that is the worst of it: if they would only be civil Mrs. Gale wouldn't
mind it so much, if they would only seem satisfied with what they get she
wouldn't care; but 'these young parsons is so high and so scornful, they
set everybody beneath their "fit." They treat her with less than
civility, just because she doesn't keep a servant, but does the work of
the house herself; as her mother did afore her; then they are always
speaking against Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire folk,' and by that very
token Mrs. Gale does not believe one of them to be a real gentleman, or
come of gentle kin. 'The old parsons is worth the whole lump of college
lads; they know what belongs to good manners, and is kind to high and
low.'

'More bread!' cries Mr. Malone, in a tone which, though prolonged but to
utter two syllables, proclaims him at once a native of the land of
shamrocks and potatoes. Mrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone more than either of
the other two; but she fears him also, for he is a tall strongly-built
personage, with real Irish legs and arms, and a face as genuinely
national--not the Milesian face, not Daniel O'Connell's style, but the
high featured, North-American-Indian sort of visage, which belongs to a
certain class of the Irish gentry, and has a petrified and proud look,
better suited to the owner of an estate of slaves than to the landlord of
a free peasantry. Mr. Malone's father termed himself a gentleman: he was
poor and in debt, and besottedly arrogant; and his son was like him.

Mrs. Gale offered the loaf.

'Cut it, woman,' said her guest; and the woman cut it accordingly. Had
she followed her inclinations, she would have cut the parson also; her
Yorkshire soul revolted absolutely from his manner of command.

The curates had good appetites, and though the beef was 'tough,' they ate
a great deal of it. They swallowed, too, a tolerable allowance of the
'flat beer,' while a dish of Yorkshire pudding, and two tureens of
vegetables, disappeared like leaves before locusts. The cheese, too,
received distinguished marks of their attention; and a 'spice-cake,'
which followed by way of dessert, vanished like a vision, and was no more
found. Its elegy was chanted in the kitchen by Abraham, Mrs. Gale's son
and heir, a youth of six summers; he had reckoned upon the reversion
thereof, and when his mother brought down the empty platter, he lifted up
his voice and wept sore.

The curates, meantime, sat and sipped their wine, a liquor of
unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed. Mr. Malone, indeed, would much
rather have had whisky; but Mr. Donne, being an Englishman, did not keep
the beverage. While they sipped they argued, not on politics, nor on
philosophy, nor on literature--these topics were now, as ever, totally
without interest for them--not even on theology, practical or doctrinal,
but on minute points of ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which
seemed empty as bubbles to all save themselves. Mr. Malone, who contrived
to secure two glasses of wine, when his brethren contented themselves
with one, waxed by degrees hilarious after his fashion; that is; he grew
a little insolent, said rude things in a hectoring tone, and laughed
clamorously at his own brilliancy.

Each of his companions became in turn his butt. Malone had a stock of
jokes at their service, which he was accustomed to serve out regularly on
convivial occasions like the present, seldom vying his wit; for which,
indeed, there was no necessity, as he never appeared to consider himself
monotonous, and did not at all care what others thought. Mr. Donne he
favoured with hints about his extreme meagreness, allusions to his
turned-up nose, cutting sarcasms on a certain threadbare chocolate
surtout which that gentleman was accustomed to sport whenever it rained
or seemed likely to rain, and criticisms on a choice set of cockney
phrases and modes of pronunciation, Mr. Donne's own property, and
certainly deserving of remark for the elegance and finish they
communicated to his style.

Mr. Sweeting was bantered about his stature--he was a little man, a mere
boy in height and breadth compared with the athletic Malone; rallied on
his musical accomplishments--he played the flute and sang hymns like a
seraph, some young ladies of his parish thought; sneered at as 'the
ladies pet; teased about his mamma and sisters, for whom poor Mr.
Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of whom he was foolish enough now
and then to speak in the presence of the priestly Paddy, from whose
anatomy the bowels of natural affection had somehow been omitted.

The victims met these attacks each in his own way: Mr. Donne with a
stilted self-complacency and half-sullen phlegm, the sole props of his
otherwise somewhat rickety dignity; Mr. Sweeting with the indifference of
a light, easy disposition, which never professed to have any dignity to
maintain.

When Malone's raillery became rather too offensive, which it soon did,
they joined in an attempt to turn the tables on him by asking him how
many boys had shouted 'Irish Peter!' after him as he came along the road
that day (Malone's name was Peter--the Rev. Peter Augustus Malone);
requesting to be informed whether it was the mode in Ireland for
clergymen to carry loaded pistols in their pockets, and a shillelah in
their hands, when they made pastoral visits; inquiring the signification
of such words as vele, firrum, hellum, storrum (so Mr. Malone invariably
pronounced veil, firm, helm, storm), and employing such other methods of
retaliation as the innate refinement of their minds suggested.

This, of course, would not do. Malone, being neither good-natured nor
phlegmatic, was presently in a towering passion. He vociferated,
gesticulated; Donne and Sweeting laughed. He reviled them as Saxons and
snobs at the very top pitch of his high Celtic voice; they taunted him
with being the native of a conquered land. He menaced rebellion in the
name of his 'counthry,' vented bitter hatred against English rule; they
spoke of rags, beggary, and pestilence. The little parlour was in an
uproar; you would have thought a duel must follow such virulent abuse; it
seemed a wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Gale did not take alarm at the noise,
and send for a constable to keep the peace. But they were accustomed to
such demonstrations; they well knew that the curates never dined or took
tea together without a little exercise of the sort, and were quite easy
as to consequences, knowing that these clerical quarrels were as harmless
as they were noisy, that they resulted in nothing, and that, on whatever
terms the curates might part to-night, they would be sure to meet the
best friends in the world to-morrow morning.

As the worthy pair were sitting by their kitchen fire, listening to the
repeated and sonorous contact of Malone's fist with the mahogany plane of
the parlour table, and to the consequent start and jingle of decanters
and glasses following each assault, to the mocking laughter of the allied
English disputants, and the stuttering declamation of the isolated
Hibernian--as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the outer door-step, and
the knocker quivered to a sharp appeal.

Mr. Gale went and opened.

'Whom have you upstairs in the parlour?' asked a voice--a rather
remarkable voice, nasal in tone, abrupt in utterance.

'O Mr. Helstone, is it you, sir? I could hardly see you for the darkness;
it is so soon dark now. Will you walk in, sir?'

'I want to know first whether it is worth my while walking in. Whom have
you upstairs?'

'The curates, sir.'

'What! all of them?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Been dining here?'

'Yes, sir.'

'That will do.'

With these words a person entered--a middle-aged man, in black. He walked
straight across the kitchen to an inner door, opened it, inclined his
head forward, and stood listening. There was something to listen to, for
the noise above was just then louder than ever.

'Hey!' he ejaculated to himself; then turning to Mr. Gale--'Have you
often this sort of work?'

Mr. Gale had been a churchwarden, and was indulgent to the clergy.

'They're young, you know, sir--they're young,' said he deprecatingly.

'Young! They want caning. Bad boys--bad boys! And if you were a
Dissenter, John Gale, instead of being a good Churchman, they'd do the
like--they'd expose themselves; but I'll...'

By way of finish to this sentence, he passed through the inner door, drew
it after him, and mounted the stair. Again he listened a few minutes when
he arrived at the upper room. Making entrance without warning, he stood
before the curates.

And they were silent; they were transfixed; and so was the invader. He--a
personage short of stature, but straight of port, and bearing on broad
shoulders a hawk's head, beak, and eye, the whole surmounted by a
Rehoboam, or shovel hat, which he did not seem to think it necessary to
lift or remove before the presence in which he then stood--he folded his
arms on his chest and surveyed his young friends, if friends they were,
much at his leisure.

'What!' he began, delivering his words in a voice no longer nasal, but
deep--more than deep--a voice made purposely hollow and cavernous 'what!
has the miracle of Pentecost been renewed? Have the cloven tongues come
down again? Where are they? The sound filled the whole house just now. I
heard the seventeen languages in full action: Parthians, and Medes, and
Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappadocia, in
Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt and in the parts of
Libya about Cyrene, strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes and
Arabians; every one of these must have had its representative in this
room two minutes since.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone,' began Mr. Donne; 'take a seat, pray,
sir. Have a glass of wine?'

His civilities received no answer. The falcon in the black coat
proceeded,--

'What do I talk about the gift of tongues? Gift, indeed! I mistook the


Chapter, and book, and Testament--gospel for law, Acts for Genesis, the
city of Jerusalem for the plain of Shinar. It was no gift but the
confusion of tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a post. You, apostles?
What! you three? Certainly not; three presumptuous Babylonish
masons--neither more nor less!'

'I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat together over a
glass of wine after a friendly dinner--settling the Dissenters!'

'Oh! settling the Dissenters, were you? Was Malone settling the
Dissenters? It sounded to me much more like settling his co-apostles. You
were quarrelling together, making almost as much noise--you three
alone--as Moses Barraclough, the preaching tailor, and all his hearers
are making in the Methodist chapel down yonder, where they are in the
thick of a revival. I know whose fault it is.--It is yours, Malone.'

'Mine, sir?'

'Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting were quiet before you came, and would be
quiet if you were gone. I wish, when you crossed the Channel, you had
left your Irish habits behind you. Dublin student ways won't do here, The
proceedings which might pass unnoticed in a wild bog and mountain
district in Connaught will, in a decent English parish, bring disgrace on
those who indulge in them, and, what is far worse, on the sacred
institution of which they are merely the humble appendages.'

There was a certain dignity in the little elderly gentleman's manner of
rebuking these youths, though it was not, perhaps, quite the dignity most
appropriate to the occasion. Mr. Helstone, standing straight as a ramrod,
looking keen as a kite, presented, despite his clerical hat, black coat,
and gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer chiding his subalterns
than of a venerable priest exhorting his sons in the faith. Gospel
mildness, apostolic benignity, never seemed to have breathed their
influence over that keen brown visage, but firmness had fixed the
features, and sagacity had carved her own lines about them.

'I met Supplehough,' he continued, 'plodding through the mud this wet
night, going to preach at Milldean opposition shop. As I told you, I
heard Barraclough bellowing in the midst of a conventicle like a
possessed bull; and I find you, gentlemen, tarrying over your half-pint
of muddy port wine, and scolding like angry old women. No wonder
Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult converts in a day--which he
did a fortnight since; no wonder Barraclough, scamp and hypocrite as he
is, should attract all the weaver-girls in their flowers and ribbons, to
witness how much harder are his knuckles than the wooden brim of his tub;
as little wonder that you, when you are left to yourselves, without your
rectors--myself, and Hall, and Boultby--to back you, should too often
perform the holy service of our church to bare walls, and read your bit
of a dry discourse to the clerk, and the organist, and the beadle. But
enough of the subject. I came to see Malone.--I have an errand unto thee,
O captain!'

'What is it?' inquired Malone discontentedly. 'There can be no funeral to
take at this time of day.'

'Have you any arms about you?'

'Arms, sir?--yes, and legs.' And he advanced the mighty members.

'Bah! weapons I mean.'

'I have the pistols you gave me yourself. I never part with them. I lay
them ready cocked on a chair by my bedside at night. I have my
blackthorn.'

'Very good. Will you go to Hollow's Mill?'

'What is stirring at Hollow's Mill?'

'Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will be; but Moore is alone there. He has
sent all the workmen he can trust to Stilbro'; there are only two women
left about the place. It would be a nice opportunity for any of his
well-wishers to pay him a visit, if they knew how straight the path was
made before them.'

'I am none of his well-wishers, sir. I don't care for him.'

'Soh! Malone, you are afraid.'

'You know me better than that. If I really thought there was a chance of
a row I would go: but Moore is a strange, shy man, whom I never pretend
to understand; and for the sake of his sweet company only I would not
stir a step.'

'But there is a chance of a row; if a positive riot does not take
place--of which, indeed, I see no signs--yet it is unlikely this night
will pass quite tranquilly. You know Moore has resolved to have new
machinery, and he expects two wagon-loads of frames and shears from
Stilbro' this evening. Scott, the overlooker, and a few picked men are
gone to fetch them.'

'They will bring them in safely and quietly enough, sir.'

'Moore says so, and affirms he wants nobody. Some one, however, he must
have, if it were only to bear evidence in case anything should happen. I
call him very careless. He sits in the counting-house with the shutters
unclosed; he goes out here and there after dark, wanders right up the
hollow, down Fieldhead Lane, among the plantations, just as if he were
the darling of the neighbourhood, or--being, as he is, its
detestation--bore a "charmed life," as they say in tale-books. He takes
no warning from the fate of Pearson, nor from that of Armitage--shot, one
in his own house and the other on the moor.'

'But he should take warning, sir, and use precautions too,' interposed
Mr. Sweeting; 'and I think he would if he heard what I heard the other
day.'

'What did you hear, Davy?'

'You know Mike Hartley, sir?'

'The Antinomian weaver? Yes.'

'When Mike has been drinking for a few weeks together, he generally winds
up by a visit to Nunnely vicarage, to tell Mr. Hall a piece of his mind
about his sermons, to denounce the horrible tendency of his doctrine of
works, and warn him that he and all his hearers are sitting in outer
darkness.'

'Well that has nothing to do with Moore.'

'Besides being an Antinomian, he is a violent Jacobin and leveller, sir.'

'I know. When he is very drunk, his mind is always running on regicide.
Mike is not unacquainted with history, and it is rich to hear him going
over the list of tyrants of whom, as he says, "the revenger of blood has
obtained satisfaction." The fellow exults strangely in murder done on
crowned heads or on any head for political reasons. I have already heard
it hinted that he seems to have a queer hankering after Moore. Is that
what you allude to, Sweeting?'

'You use the proper term, sir. Mr. Hall thinks Mike has no personal
hatred of Moore. Mike says he even likes to talk to him and run after
him, but he has a hankering that Moore should be made an example of. He
was extolling him to Mr. Hall the other day as the mill-owner with the
most brains in Yorkshire, and for that reason he affirms Moore should be
chosen as a sacrifice, an oblation of a sweet savour. Is Mike Hartley in
his right mind, do you think, sir?' inquired Sweeting simply.

'Can't tell, Davy. He may be crazed, or he may be only crafty, or perhaps
a little of both.'

'He talks of seeing visions, sir.'

'Ay! He is a very Ezekiel or Daniel for visions. He came just when I was
going to bed last Friday night to describe one that had been revealed to
him in Nunnely Park that very afternoon.'

'Tell it, sir. What was it?' urged Sweeting.

'Davy, thou hast an enormous organ of wonder in thy cranium. Malone, you
see, has none. Neither murders nor visions interest him. See what a big
vacant Saph he looks at this moment'

'Saph! Who was Saph, sir?'

'I thought you would not know. You may find it out It is biblical. I know
nothing more of him than his name and race; but from a boy upwards I have
always attached a personality to Saph. Depend on it he was honest, heavy,
and luckless. He met his end at Gob by the hand of Sibbechai.'

'But the vision, sir?'

'Davy, thou shalt hear. Donne is biting his nails, and Malone yawning, so
I will tell it but to thee. Mike is out of work, like many others,
unfortunately. Mr. Grame, Sir Philip Nunnely's steward, gave him a job
about the priory. According to his account, Mike was busy hedging rather
late in the afternoon; but before dark, when he heard what he thought was
a band at a distance--bugles, fifes, and the sound of a trumpet; it came
from the forest, and he wondered that there should be music there. He
looked up. All amongst the trees he saw moving objects, red, like
poppies, or white, like may blossom. The wood was full of them; they
poured out and filled the park. He then perceived they were
soldiers--thousands and tens of thousands; but they made no more noise
than a swarm of midges on a summer evening. They formed in order, he
affirmed, and marched, regiment after regiment, across the park. He
followed them to Nunnely Common; the music still played soft and distant
On the common be watched them go through a number of evolutions. A man
clothed in scarlet stood in the centre and directed them. They extended,
he declared, over fifty acres. They were in sight half an hour; then they
marched away quite silently. The whole time he heard neither voice nor
tread nothing but the faint music playing a solemn march.'

'Where did they go, sir?'

'Towards Briarfield. Mike followed them. They seemed passing Fieldhead,
when a column of smoke, such as might be vomited by a park of artillery,
spread noiseless over the fields, the road, the common, and roiled, he
said, blue and dim, to his very feet. As it cleared away he looked again
for the soldiers, but they were vanished; he saw them no more. Mike, like
a wise Daniel as he is, not only rehearsed the vision but gave the
interpretation thereof. It signifies, he intimated, bloodshed and civil
conflict.'

'Do you credit it, sir?' asked Sweeting.

'Do you, Davy?--But come, Malone; why are you not off?'

'I am rather surprised, sir, you did not stay with Moore yourself. You
like this kind of thing.'

'So I should have done, had I not unfortunately happened to engage
Boultby to sup with me on his way home from the Bible Society meeting at
Nunnely. I promised to send you as my substitute; for which, by-the-bye,
he did not thank me. He would much rather have had me than you, Peter.
Should there be any real need of help I shall join you. The mill-bell
will give warning. Meantime, go--unless (turning suddenly to Messrs.
Sweeting and Donne)--unless Davy Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers
going.--What do you say, gentlemen? The commission is an honourable one,
not without the seasoning of a little real peril; for the country is in a
queer state, as you all know, and Moore and his mill and his machinery
are held in sufficient odium. There are chivalric sentiments, there is
high-beating courage, under those waistcoats of yours, I doubt not
Perhaps I am too partial to my favourite Peter. Little David shall be the
champion, or spotless Joseph.--Malone, you are but a great floundering
Saul after all, good only to lend your armour. Out with your firearms;
fetch your shillelah. It is there--in the corner.'

With a significant grin Malone produced his pistols, offering one to each
of his brethren. They were not readily seized on. With graceful modesty
each gentleman retired a step from the presented weapon.

'I never touch them. I never did touch anything of the kind,' said Mr.
Donne.

'I am almost a stranger to Mr. Moore,' murmured Sweeting.

'If you never touched a pistol, try the feel of it now, great satrap of
Egypt As to the little minstrel, he probably prefers encountering the
Philistines with no other weapon than his flute.--Get their hats, Peter.
They'll both of 'em go.'

'No, sir; no, Mr. Helstone. My mother wouldn't like it,' pleaded
Sweeting.

'And I make it a rule never to get mixed up in affairs of the kind,'
observed Donne.

Helstone smiled sardonically; Malone laughed a horse-laugh. He then
replaced his arms, took his hat and cudgel, and saying that 'he never
felt more in tune for a shindy in his life, and that he wished a score of
greasy cloth-dressers might beat up Moore's quarters that night,' he made
his exit, clearing the stairs at a stride or two, and making the house
shake with the bang of the front-door behind him.



Chapter 2 - The Wagons


The evening was pitch dark: star and moon were quenched in gray
rain-clouds--gray they would have been by day; by night they looked
sable. Malone was not a man given to close observation of nature; her
changes passed, for the most part, unnoticed by him. He could walk miles
on the most varying April day and never see the beautiful dallying of
earth and heaven--never mark when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops, making
them smile clear in green light, or when a shower wept over them, hiding
their crests With the low-hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. He did
not, therefore, care to contrast the sky as it now appeared--a muffled,
streaming vault, all black, save where, towards the east, the furnaces of
Stilbro' ironworks threw a tremulous lurid shimmer on the horizon--with
the same sky on an unclouded frosty night He did not trouble himself to
ask where the constellations and the planets were gone, or to regret the
'black-blue' serenity of the air-ocean which those white islets stud, and
which another ocean, of heavier and denser element, now rolled below and
concealed. He just doggedly pursued his way, leaning a little forward as
he walked, and wearing his hat on the back of his head, as his Irish
manner was. 'Tramp, tramp,' he went along the causeway, where the road
boasted the privilege of such an accommodation; 'splash, splash,' through
the mire-filled cart ruts, where the flags were exchanged for soft mud.
He looked but for certain landmarks--the spire of Briarfield Church;
farther on, the lights of Redhouse. This was an inn; and when he reached
it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a vision of
glasses on a round table, and of revellers on an oaken settle, had nearly
drawn aside the curate from his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler
of whisky-and-water. In a strange place he would instantly have realised
the dream; but the company assembled in that kitchen were Mr. Helstone's
own parishioners; they all knew him. He sighed, and passed on.

The highroad was now to be quitted, as the remaining distance to Hollow's
Mill might be considerably reduced by a short cut across fields. These
fields were level and monotonous. Malone took a direct course through
them, jumping hedge and wall. He passed but one building here, and that
seemed large and hall-like, though irregular. You could see a high
gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick, lofty stack of
chimneys. There were some trees behind it. It was dark; not a candle
shone from any window. It was absolutely still; the rain running from the
eaves, and the rather wild but very low whistle of the wind round the
chimneys and through the boughs were the sole sounds in its
neighbourhood.

This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, declined in a rapid
descent Evidently a vale lay below, through which you could hear the
water run. One light glimmered in the depth. For that beacon Malone
steered.

He came to a little white house--you could see it was white even through
this dense darkness--and knocked at the door. A fresh-faced servant
opened it. By the candle she held was revealed a narrow passage,
terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors covered with crimson baize, a
strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-coloured
walls and white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.

'Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose?'

'Yes, sir, but he is not in?'

'Not in! Where is he then?'

'At the mill--in the counting-house.'

Here one of the crimson doors opened.

'Are the wagons come, Sarah?' asked a female voice, and a female head at
the same time was apparent It might not be the head of a goddess--indeed
a screw of curl-paper on each side the temples quite forbade that
supposition--but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; yet Malone seemed
to take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully back
into the rain at the view thereof; and saying, 'I'll go to him,' hurried
in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across an obscure yard, towards
a huge black mill.

The work-hours were over; the 'hands' were gone. The machinery was at
rest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round it somewhere in its great
sooty flank he found another chink of light; he knocked at another door,
using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelah, with which he beat
a rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.

'Is it Joe Scott? What news of the wagons, Joe?'

'No; it's myself. Mr. Helstone would send me.'

'Oh! Mr. Malone.' The voice in uttering this name had the slightest
possible cadence of disappointment. After a moment's pause it continued,
politely but a little formally,--

'I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely Mr. Helstone
should have thought it necessary to trouble you so far. There was no
necessity--I told him so--and on such a night; but walk forwards.'

Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable, Malone followed
the speaker into a light and bright room within--very light and bright
indeed it seemed to eyes which, for the last hour, had been striving to
penetrate the double darkness of night and fog; but except for its
excellent fire, and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustre burning
on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was carpetless;
the three or four stiff-backed, green-painted chairs seemed once to have
furnished the kitchen of some farm-house; a desk of strong, solid
formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed sheets on the
stone-coloured walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designs
of machinery, etc., completed the furniture of the place.

Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone, who, when he had removed
and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking
chairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost within the bars of the red
grate.

'Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore; and all snug to
yourself.'

'Yes; but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would prefer
stepping into the house.'

'Oh no! The ladies are best alone. I never was a lady's man. You don't
mistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you, Mr. Moore?'

'Sweeting! Which of them is that? The gentleman in the chocolate
overcoat, or the little gentleman?'

'The little one--he of Nunnely; the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with
the whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!'

'Better be generally in love with all than especially with one, I should
think, in that quarter.'

'But he is specially in love with one besides, for when I and Donne urged
him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy, he named--which do you
think?'

With a queer, quiet smile Mr. Moore replied, 'Dora, of course, or
Harriet'

'Ha! ha! you've an excellent guess. But what made you hit on those two?'

'Because they are the tallest, the handsomest, and Dora, at least, is the
stoutest; and as your friend Mr. Sweeting is but a little slight figure,
I concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such cases, he
preferred his contrast.'

'You are right; Dora it is. But he has no chance, has he, Moore?'

'What has Mr. Sweeting besides his curacy?'

This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly. He laughed for full
three minutes before he answered it.

'What has Sweeting? Why, David has his harp, or flute, which comes to the
same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck watch; ditto, ring; ditto,
eyeglass. That's what he has.'

'How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns only?'

'Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see him. I'll roast him
for his presumption. But no doubt he expects old Christopher Sykes would
do something handsome. He is rich, is he not? They live in a large
house.'

'Sykes carries on an extensive concern.'

'Therefore he must be wealthy, eh?'

'Therefore he must have plenty to do with his wealth, and in these times
would be about as likely to think of drawing money from the business to
give dowries to his daughters as I should be to dream of pulling down the
cottage there, and constructing on its ruins a house as large as
Fieldhead.'

'Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day?'

'No. Perhaps that I was about to effect some such change. Your Briarfield
gossips are capable of saying that or sillier things.'

'That you were going to take Fieldhead on a lease (I thought it looked a
dismal place, by-the-bye, to-night, as I passed it), and that it was your
intention to settle a Miss Sykes there as mistress--to be married, in
short, ha! ha! Now, which is it? Dora, I am sure. You said she was the
handsomest'

'I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be married since I
came to Briarfield. They have assigned me every marriageable single woman
by turns in the district. Now it was the two Misses Wynns--first the
dark, then the light one; now the red-haired Miss Armitage, then the
mature Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders all the tribe of
the Misses Sykes. On what grounds this gossip rests God knows. I visit
now here; I seek female society about as assiduously as you do, Mr.
Malone. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson a
call in their counting-house, where our discussions run on other topics
than matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other things than
courtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth we can't sell, the hands
we can't employ, the mills we can't run, the perverse course of events
generally, which we cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well
at present, to the tolerably complete exclusion of such figments as
lovemaking, etc.'

'I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hate
more than another, it is that of marriage--I mean marriage in the vulgar
weak sense, as a mere matter of sentiment--two beggarly fools agreeing to
unite their indigence by some fantastic tie of feeling. Humbug! But an
advantageous connection, such as can be formed in consonance with dignity
of views and permanency of solid interests, is not so bad--eh?'

'No,' responded Moore, in an absent manner. The subject seemed to have no
interest for him; he did not pursue it. After sitting for some time
gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.

'Hark!' said he. 'Did you hear wheels?'

Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened. He soon closed
it. 'It is only the sound of the wind rising', he remarked, 'and the
rivulet a little swollen, rushing down the hollow. I expected those
wagons at six; it is near nine now.'

'Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this new machinery will
bring you into danger?' inquired Malone. 'Helstone seems to think it
will.'

'I only wish the machines--the frames--were safe here, and lodged within
the walls of this mill. Once put up, I defy the frame-breakers. Let them
only pay me a visit and take the consequences. My mill is my castle.'

'One despises such low scoundrels,' observed Malone, in a profound vein
of reflection. 'I almost wish a party would call upon you to-night; but
the road seemed extremely quiet as I came along. I saw nothing astir.'

'You came by the Redhouse?'

'Yes.'

'There would be nothing on that road. It is in the direction of Stilbro'
the risk lies.'

'And you think there is risk?'

'What these fellows have done to others they may do to me. There is only
this difference: most of the manufacturers seem paralysed when they are
attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his dressing-shop was set on fire and
burned to the ground, when the cloth was torn from his tenters and left
in shreds in the field, took no steps to discover or punish the
miscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under the jaws of a ferret.
Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade, my mill, and my
machinery.'

'Helstone says these three are your gods; that the "Orders in Council"
are with you another name for the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh is
your Antichrist, and the war-party his legions.'

'Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me. They stand in my
way. I cannot get on. I cannot execute my plans because of them. I see
myself baffled at every turn by their untoward effects.'

'But you are rich and thriving, Moore?'

'I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. You should step into my warehouse
yonder, and observe how it is piled to the roof with pieces. Roakes and
Pearson are in the same condition. America used to be their market, but
the Orders in Council have cut that off.'

Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a conversation of this
sort. He began to knock the heels of his boots together, and to yawn.

'And then to think,' continued Mr. Moore, who seemed too much taken up
with the current of his own thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest's
ennui--to think that these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield
will keep pestering one about being married! As if there was nothing to
be done in life but to "pay attention," as they say to some young lady,
and then to go to church with her, and then to start on a bridal tour and
then to run through a round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be "having
a family." Oh, que le diable emporte!' He broke off the aspiration into
which he was launching with a certain energy, and added, more calmly, 'I
believe women talk and think only of these things, and they naturally
fancy men's minds similarly occupied.'

'Of course--of course,' assented Malone; 'but never mind them.' And he
whistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of
something. This time Moore caught and, it appeared, comprehended his
demonstrations.

'Mr. Malone,' said he, 'you must require refreshment after your wet walk.
I forget hospitality.'

'Not at all,' rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was at
last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.

'It is my fancy,' said he, 'to have every convenience within myself, and
not to be dependent on the femininity in the cottage yonder for every
mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup
here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own
watchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to
wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone,
can you cook a mutton chop?'

'Try me. I've done it hundreds of times at college.'

'There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly.
You know the secret of keeping the juices in?'

'Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please.'

The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookery
with vigour. The manufacturer placed on the table plates, a loaf of
bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copper
kettle--still from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard--filled it
with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside
the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl;
but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.

'Is it you, Sarah?'

'Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?'

'No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the
doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed.'

He returned.

'You have your household in proper order,' observed Malone approvingly,
as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he
assiduously turned the mutton chops. 'You are not under petticoat
government, like poor Sweeting, a man--whew! how the fat spits! it has
burnt my hand--destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I,
Moore--there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy--you and I
will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry.'

'I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray mare is handsome and
tractable, why not?'

'The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?'

'There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions return
they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames
intact.'

Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed aloud at trifles,
made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew
unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before.
It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance of
this same host I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table.

He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather a
strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, sallow, very foreign of
aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. It appears
that he spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange it with
more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, that they
have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in their chiselling; nor
does a spectator become aware of this advantage till he has examined him
well, for an anxious countenance, and a hollow, somewhat haggard, outline
of lace disturb the idea of beauty with one of care. His eyes are large,
and grave, and gray; their expression is intent and meditative, rather
searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial, when he parts his
lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agreeable--not that it is frank or
cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of a certain sedate
charms, suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of a considerate,
perhaps a kind nature, of feelings that may wear well at home--patient,
forbearing, possibly faithful feelings. He is still young--not more than
thirty; his stature is tall, his figure slender. His manner of speaking
displeases. He has an outlandish accent, which, notwithstanding a studied
carelessness of pronunciation and diction, grates on a British, and
especially on a Yorkshire, ear.

Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely that. He came of a
foreign ancestry by the mother's side, and was himself born and partly
reared on a foreign soil. A hybrid in nature, it is probable he had a
hybrid's feeling on many points--patriotism for one; it is likely that he
was unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes and
customs; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate his
individual person from any community amidst which his lot might
temporarily happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to be his best
wisdom to push the interests of Robert Gérard Moore, to the exclusion of
philanthropic consideration for general interests, with which he regarded
the said Gérard Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Trade was Mr.
Moore's hereditary calling: the Gérards of Antwerp had been merchants for
two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy merchants; but the
uncertainties, the involvements, of business had come upon them;
disastrous speculations had loosened by degrees the foundations of their
credit. The house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen years; and at
last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had rushed down a total
ruin. In its fall was involved the English and Yorkshire firm of Moore,
closely connected with the Antwerp house, and of which one of the
partners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore, had married Hortense Gérard,
with the prospect of his bride inheriting her father Constantine Gérard's
share in the business. She inherited, as we have seen, but his share in
the liabilities of the film; and these liabilities, though duly set aside
by a composition with creditors, some said her son Robert accepted, in
his turn, as a legacy, and that he aspired one day to discharge them, and
to rebuild the fallen house of Gérard and Moore on a scale at least equal
to its former greatness. It was even supposed that he took bypast
circumstances much to heart; and if a childhood passed at the side of a
saturnine mother, under foreboding of coming evil, and a manhood drenched
and blighted by the pitiless descent of the storm, could painfully
impress the mind, his probably was impressed in no golden characters.

If, however, he had a great end of restoration in view it was not in his
power to employ great means for its attainment He was obliged to be
content with the day of small things. When he came to Yorkshire he--whose
ancestors had owned warehouses in this seaport and factories in that
inland town, had possessed their town-house and their country-seat--saw
no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill, in an out-of-the-way nook of
an out-of-the-way district; to take a cottage adjoining it for his
residence, and to add to his possessions, as pasture for his horse, and
space for his cloth-tenters, a few acres of the steep, rugged land that
lined the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled. All this he held
at a somewhat high rent (for these war times were hard and everything was
dear) of the trustees of the Fieldhead estate, then the property of a
minor.

At the time this history commences, Robert Moore had lived but two years
in the district, during which period he had at least proved himself
possessed of the quality of activity. The dingy cottage was converted
into a neat; tasteful residence. Of part of the rough land he had made
garden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with Flemish,
exactness and care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, and
fitted up with old machinery, now become inefficient and out of date, he
had from the first evinced the strongest contempt for all its
arrangements and appointments: his aim had been to effect a radical
reform, which he had executed as fast as his very limited capital would
allow; and the narrowness of that capital, and consequent check on his
progress, was a restraint which galled his spirit sorely. Moore ever
wanted to push on. 'Forward' was the device stamped upon his soul; but
poverty curbed him. Sometimes (figuratively) he foamed at the mouth when
the reins were drawn very tight.

In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected that he would
deliberate much as to whether his advance was or was not prejudicial to
others. Not being a native, nor for any length of time a resident of the
neighbourhood, he did not sufficiently care when the new inventions threw
the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself where those to
whom he no longer paid weekly wages found daily bread; and in this
negligence he only resembled thousands besides, on whom the starving poor
of Yorkshire seemed to have a closer claim.

The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in British history,
and especially in the history of the northern provinces. War was then at
its height. Europe was all involved therein. England, if not weary, was
worn with long resistance--yes, and half her people were weary too, and
cried out for peace on any terms. National honour was become a mere empty
name, of no value in the eyes of many, because their sight was dim with
famine; and for a morsel of meat they would have sold their birthright.

The 'Orders in Council,' provoked by Napoleon's Milan and Berlin decrees,
and forbidding neutral powers to trade with France, had, by offending
America, cut off the principal market of the Yorkshire woollen trade, and
brought it consequently to the verge of ruin. Minor foreign markets were
glutted, and would receive no more. The Brazils, Portugal, Sicily, were
all overstocked by nearly two years' consumption. At this crisis certain
inventions in machinery were introduced into the staple manufactures of
the north, which, greatly reducing the number of hands necessary to be
employed, threw thousands out of work, and left them without legitimate
means of sustaining life. A bad harvest supervened. Distress reached its
climax. Endurance, overgoaded, stretched the hand of fraternity to
sedition. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving
under the hills of the northern counties. But, as is usual in such cases,
nobody took much notice when a food-riot broke out in a manufacturing
town, when a gig-mill was burnt to the ground, or a manufacturer's house
was attacked, the furniture thrown into the streets, and the family
forced to flee for their lives, some local measures were or were not
taken by the local magistracy. A ringleader was detected, or more
frequently suffered to elude detection; newspaper paragraphs were written
on the subject, and there the thing stopped. As to the sufferers, whose
sole inheritance was labour, and who had lost that inheritance--who could
not get work, and consequently could not get wages, and consequently
could not get bread--they were left to suffer on, perhaps inevitably
left. It would not do to stop the progress of invention, to damage
science by discouraging its improvements; the war could not be
terminated; efficient relief could not be raised. There was no help then;
so the unemployed underwent their destiny--ate the bread and drank the
waters of affliction.

Misery generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines which they
believed took their bread from them; they hated the buildings which
contained those machines; they hated the manufacturers who owned those
buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, with which we have at present to
do, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable; Gérard Moore, in
his double character of semi-foreigner and thorough going progressist,
the man most abominated. And it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's
temperament than otherwise to be generally hated, especially when he
believed the thing for which he was hated a right and an expedient thing;
and it was with a sense of warlike excitement he, on this night, sat in
his counting-house waiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons.
Malone's coming and company were, it may be, most unwelcome to him. He
would have preferred sitting alone, for he liked a silent, sombre, unsafe
solitude. His watchman's musket would have been company enough for him;
the full-flowing beck in the den would have delivered continuously the
discourse most genial to his ear.

With the queerest look in the world had the manufacturer for some ten
minutes been watching the Irish curate, as the latter made free with the
punch, when suddenly that steady gray eye changed, as if another vision
came between it and Malone. Moore raised his hand.

'Chut!' he said in his French fashion, as Malone made a noise with his
glass. He listened a moment, then rose, put his hat on, and went out at
the counting-house door.

The night was still, dark, and stagnant: the water yet rushed on full and
fast; its flow almost seemed a flood in the utter silence. Moore's ear,
however, caught another sound very distant but yet dissimilar, broken and
rugged--in short, a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road. He
returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with which he walked
down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. The big wagons were
coming on; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing in the mud
and water. Moore hailed them.

'Hey, Joe Scott! Is all right?'

Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance to hear the inquiry.
He did not answer it.

'Is all right, I say?' again asked Moore, when the elephant-like leader's
nose almost touched his.

Some one jumped out from the foremost wagon into the road; a voice cried
aloud, 'Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We've smashed 'em.'

And there was a run. The wagons stood still; they were now deserted.

'Joe Scott!' No Joe Scott answered. 'Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!' No
reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern and looked into the vehicles. There
was neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.

Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his capital
on the purchase of these frames and shears which to-night had been
expected. Speculations most important to his interests depended on the
results to be wrought by them: where were they?

The words 'we've smashed 'em' rang in his ears. How did the catastrophe
affect him? By the light of the lantern he held were his features
visible, relaxing to a singular smile--the smile the man of determined
spirit wears when he reaches a juncture in his life where this determined
spirit is to feel a demand on its strength, when the strain is to be
made, and the faculty must bear or break. Yet he remained silent, and
even motionless; for at the instant he neither knew what to say nor what
to do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms
folded, gazing down and reflecting.

An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him presently look up.
His eye in the moment caught the gleam of something white attached to a
part of the harness. Examined by the light of the lantern this proved to
be a folded paper--a billet. It bore no address without; within was the
superscription:--

'To the Divil of Hollow's-miln.'

We will not copy the rest of the orthography, which was very peculiar,
but translate it into legible English. It ran thus:

'Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor, and your
men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this
as a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives and
children to go home to when they have done this deed. If you get new
machines, or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall hear from
us again. Beware!'

'Hear from you again? Yes, I'll hear from you again, and you shall hear
from me. I'll speak to you directly. On Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from
me in a moment.'

Having led the wagons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage.
Opening the door, he spoke a few words quickly but quietly to two females
who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the seeming alarm of one by
a brief palliative account of what had taken place; to the other he said,
'Go into the mill, Sarah--there is the key--and ring the mill-bell as
loud as you can. Afterwards you will get another lantern and help me to
light up the front.'

Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled them with equal
speed and care, pausing occasionally, while so occupied, as if to listen
for the mill-bell. It clanged out presently, with irregular but loud and
alarming din. The hurried, agitated peal seemed more urgent than if the
summons had been steadily given by a practised hand. On that still night,
at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round. The guests in the
kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by the clamour, and declaring that
'there must be summat more nor common to do at Hollow's-miln,' they
called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. And scarcely had
they thronged into the yard with their gleaming lights, when the tramp of
horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat, sitting erect on the
back of a shaggy pony, 'rode lightly in,' followed by an aide-de-camp
mounted on a larger steed.

Mr. Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray-horses, had saddled his
hackney, and with the aid of Sarah, the servant, lit up his mill, whose
wide and long front now glared one great illumination, throwing a
sufficient light on the yard to obviate all fear of confusion arising
from obscurity. Already a deep hum of voices became audible. Mr. Malone
had at length issued from the counting-house, previously taking the
precaution to dip his head and face in the stone water-jar; and this
precaution, together with the sudden alarm, had nearly restored to him
the possession of those senses which the punch had partially scattered.
He stood with his hat on the back of his head, and his shillelah grasped
in his dexter fist answering much at random the questions of the
newly-arrived party from the Redhouse. Mr. Moore now appeared, and was
immediately confronted by the shovel hat and the shaggy pony.

'Well, Moore, what is your business with us?' I thought you would want us
to-night--me and the hetman here (patting his pony's neck), and Tom and
his charger. When I heard your mill-bell I could sit still no longer, so
I left Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the enemy? I do
not see a mask or a smutted face present; and there is not a pane of
glass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do you expect
one?'

'Oh, not at all! I have neither had one nor expect one,' answered Moore
coolly. 'I only ordered the bell to be rung because I want two or three
neighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I and a couple or so more go
over to Stilbro' Moor.'

'To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To meet the wagons?'

'The wagons are come home an hour ago.'

'Then all's right. What more would you have?'

'They came home empty; and Joe Scott and company are left on the moor,
and so are the frames. Read that scrawl.'

Mr. Helstone received and perused the document of which the contents have
before, been given.

'Hum! They've only served you as they serve others. But, however, the
poor fellows in the ditch will be expecting help with some impatience.
This is a wet night for such a berth. I and Tom will go with you. Malone
may stay behind and take care of the mill: what is the matter with him?
His eyes seem starting out of his head.'

'He has been eating a mutton chop.'

'Indeed!--Peter Augustus, be on your guard. Eat no more mutton chops
to-night. You are left here in command of these premises--an honourable
post!'

'Is anybody to stay with me?'

'As many of the present assemblage as choose. My lads, how many of you
will remain here, and how many will go a little way with me and Mr. Moore
on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who have been waylaid and
assaulted by frame-breakers?'

The small number of three volunteered to go; the rest preferred staying
behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse the rector asked him in a low
voice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, so that Peter Augustus
could not get at them? The manufacturer nodded an affirmative, and the
rescue-party set out.



Chapter 3 - Mr. Yorke


Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on
the state of things within as on the state of things without and around
us. I make this trite remark, because I happen to know that Messrs
Helstone and Moore trotted forth from the mill-yard gates at the head of
their very small company, in the best possible spirits. When a ray from a
lantern (the three pedestrians of the party carried each one) fell on Mr.
Moore's face, you could see an unusual, because a lively, spark dancing
in his eyes, and a new-found vivacity mantling on his dark physiognomy;
and when the rector's visage was illuminated, his hard features were
revealed all agrin and ashine with glee. Yet a drizzling night, a
somewhat perilous expedition, you would think were not circumstances
calculated to enliven those exposed to the wet and engaged in the
adventure. If any member or members of the crew who had been at work on
Stilbro' Moor had caught a view of this party, they would have had great
pleasure in shooting either of the leaders from behind a wall: and the
leaders knew this; and the fact is, being both men of steely nerves and
steady beating hearts, were elate with the knowledge.

I am aware, reader, and you need not remind me, that it is a dreadful
thing for a parson to be warlike; I am aware that he should be a man of
peace. I have some faint outline of an idea of what a clergyman's mission
is amongst mankind, and I remember distinctly whose servant he is, whose
message he delivers, whose example he should follow; yet, with all this,
if you are a parson-hater, you need not expect me to go along with you
every step of your dismal, downward-tending, unchristian road; you need
not expect me to join in your deep anathemas, at once so narrow and so
sweeping, in your poisonous rancour, so intense and so absurd, against
'the cloth;' to lift up my eyes and hands with a Supplehough, or to
inflate my lungs with a Barraclough, in horror and denunciation of the
diabolical rector of Briarfield.

He was not diabolical at all. The evil simply was--he had missed his
vocation. He should have been a soldier, and circumstances had made him a
priest. For the rest, he was a conscientious, hard-headed, hard-handed,
brave, stern, implacable, faithful little man; a man almost without
sympathy, ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid; but a man true to principle,
honourable, sagacious, and sincere. It seems to me, reader, that you
cannot always cut out men to fit their profession, and that you ought not
to curse them because their profession sometimes hangs on them
ungracefully. Nor will I curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was. Yet
he was cursed, and by many of his own parishioners, as by others he was
adored--which is the frequent fate of men who show partiality in
friendship and bitterness in enmity, who are equally attached to
principles and adherent to prejudices.

Helstone and Moore, being both in excellent spirits, and united for the
present in one cause, you would expect that, as they rode side by side,
they would converse amicably. Oh no! These two men, of hard, bilious
natures both, rarely came into contact but they chafed each other's
moods. Their frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone was a high
Tory (there were Tories in those days), and Moore was a bitter Whig--a
Whig, at least, as far as opposition to the war-party was concerned, that
being the question which affected his own interest; and only on that
question did he profess any British politics at all. He liked to
infuriate Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibility of
Bonaparte; by taunting England and Europe with the impotence of their
efforts to withstand him and by coolly advancing the opinion that it was
as well to yield to him soon as late, since he must in the end crush
every antagonist, and reign supreme.

Helstone could not bear these sentiments. It was only on the
consideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and alien, and having but
half measure of British blood to temper the foreign gall which corroded
his veins, that he brought himself to listen to them without indulging
the wish he felt to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhat
allayed his disgust; namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone with
which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistency of
Moore's crabbed contumacy.

As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, they met what little wind
there was; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore had been fretting his
companion previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, and perhaps
irritated by the sharp drizzle, he began to goad him.

'Does your Peninsular news please you still?' he asked.

'What do you mean?' was the surly demand of the rector.

'I mean, have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord Wellington?'

'And what do you mean now?'

'Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebble-hearted idol of
England has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French
holocaust you want to offer up?'

'I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea the day
it pleases him to lift his arm.'

'But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what you say. Bonaparte's
marshals are great men, who act under the guidance of an omnipotent
master-spirit. Your Wellington is the most humdrum of commonplace
martinets, whose slow, mechanical movements are further cramped by an
ignorant home government.'

'Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the right champion of a
good cause, the fit representative of a powerful, a resolute, a sensible,
and an honest nation.'

'Your good cause, as far as I understand it, is simply the restoration of
that filthy, feeble Ferdinand to a throne which he disgraced. Your fit
representative of an honest people is a dull-witted drover, acting for a
duller-witted farmer; and against these are arrayed victorious supremacy
and invincible genius.'

'Against legitimacy is arrayed usurpation; against modest, single-minded,
righteous, and brave resistance to encroachment is arrayed boastful,
double-tongued, selfish, and treacherous ambition to possess. God defend
the right!'

'God often defends the powerful.'

'What! I suppose the handful of Israelites standing dryshod on the
Asiatic side of the Red Sea was more powerful than the host of the
Egyptians drawn up on the African side? Were they more numerous? Were
they better appointed? Were they more mighty, in a word--eh? Don't speak,
or you'll tell a lie, Moore; you know you will. They were a poor,
overwrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants had oppressed them through four
hundred years; a feeble mixture of women and children diluted their thin
ranks; their masters, who roared to follow them through the divided
flood, were a set of pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as the
lions of Libya. They were armed, horsed, and charioted; the poor Hebrew
wanderers were afoot. Few of them, it is likely, had better weapons than
their shepherds' crooks or their masons' building-tools; their meek and
mighty leader himself had only his rod. But bethink you, Robert Moore,
right was with them; the God of battles was on their side. Crime and the
lost archangel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, and which triumphed? We
know that well. "The Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the
Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore" yea,
"the depths covered them, they sank to the bottom as a stone." The right
hand of the Lord became glorious in power; the right hand of the Lord
dashed in pieces the enemy!'

'You are all right; only you forget the true parallel. France is Israel,
and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with her old overgorged empires and rotten
dynasties, is corrupt Egypt; gallant France is the Twelve Tribes, and her
fresh and vigorous Usurper the Shepherd of Horeb.'

'I scorn to answer you.'

Moore accordingly answered himself--at least, he subjoined to what he had
just said an additional observation in a lower voice.

'Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses! He was the right thing there,
fit to head and organise measures for the regeneration of nations. It
puzzles me to this day how the conqueror of Lodi should have condescended
to become an emperor, a vulgar, a stupid humbug; and still more how a
people who had once called themselves republicans should have sunk again
to the grade of mere slaves. I despise France! If England had gone as far
on the march of civilisation as France did, she would hardly have
retreated so shamelessly.'

'You don't mean to say that besotted imperial France is any worse than
bloody republican France?' demanded Helstone fiercely.

'I mean to say nothing, but I can think what I please, you know, Mr.
Helstone, both about France and England; and about revolutions, and
regicides, and restorations in general; and about the divine right of
kings, which you often stickle for in your sermons, and the duty of
non-resistance, and the sanity of war, and--'

Mr. Moore's sentence was here cut short by the rapid rolling up of a gig,
and its sudden stoppage in the middle of the road. Both he and the rector
had been too much occupied with their discourse to notice its approach
till it was close upon them.

'Nah, maister; did th' waggons hit home?' demanded a voice from the
vehicle.

'Can that be Joe Scott?'

'Ay, ay!' returned another voice; for the gig contained two persons, as
was seen by the glimmer of its lamp. The men with the lanterns had now
fallen into the rear, or rather, the equestrians of the rescue-party had
outridden the pedestrians. 'Ay, Mr. Moore, it's Joe Scott. I'm bringing
him back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top of the moor
yonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him to
you?'

'Why, my thanks, I believe; for I could better have afforded to lose a
better man. That is you, I suppose, Mr. Yorke, by your voice?'

'Ay, lad, it's me. I was coming home from Stilbro' market, and just as I
got to the middle of the moor, and was whipping on as swift as the wind
(for these, they say, are not safe times, thanks to a bad government!), I
heard a groan. I pulled up. Some would have whipt on faster; but I've
naught to fear that I know of. I don't believe there's a lad in these
parts would harm me--at least, I'd give them as good as I got if they
offered to do it. I said, "Is there aught wrong anywhere?" "'Deed is
there,' somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. "What's to do?
Be sharp and tell me," I ordered. "Nobbut four on us ligging in a ditch,"
says Joe, as quiet as could be. I tell'd 'em more shame to 'em, and bid
them get up and move on, or I'd lend them a lick of the gig-whip; for my
notion was they were all fresh. "We'd ha' done that an hour sin', but
we're teed wi' a bit o' band," says Joe. So in a while I got down and
loosed 'em wi' my penknife; and Scott would ride wi' me, to tell me all
how it happened; and t' others are coming on as fast as their feet will
bring them.'

'Well, I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Yorke.'

'Are you, my lad? You know you're not. However, here are the rest
approaching. And here, by the Lord, is another set with lights in their
pitchers, like the army of Gideon; and as we've th' parson wi' us--good
evening, Mr. Helstone, we'se do.'

Mr. Helstone returned the salutation of the individual in the gig very
stiffly indeed. That individual proceeded:

'We're eleven strong men, and there's both horses and chariots amang us.
If we could only fall in wi' some of these starved ragamuffins of
frame-breakers we could win a grand victory. We're could iv'ry one be a
Wellington--that would please ye, Mr. Helstone--and sich paragraphs as we
could contrive for t' papers! Briarfield suld be famous: but we'se hev a
column and a half i' th' Stilbro' Courier ower this job, as it is, I dare
say. I'se expect no less.'

'And I'll promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for I'll write the article
myself,' returned the rector.

'To be sure--sartainly! And mind ye recommend weel that them 'at brake t'
bits o' frames, and teed Joe Scott's legs wi' band, suld be hung without
benefit o' clergy. It's a hanging matter, or suld be. No doubt o' that'

'If I judged them I'd give them short shrift!' cried Moore. 'But I mean
to let them quite alone this bout, to give them rope enough, certain that
in the end they will hang themselves.'

'Let them alone, will ye, Moore? Do you promise that?'

'Promise! No. All I mean to say is, I shall give myself no particular
trouble to catch them; but if one falls in my way--'

'You'll snap him up, of course. Only you would rather they would do
something worse than merely stop a wagon before you reckon with them.
Well, we'll say no more on the subject at present Here we are at my door,
gentlemen, and I hope you and the men will step in. You will none of you
be the worse of a little refreshment.'

Moore and Helstone opposed this proposition as unnecessary. It was,
however, pressed on them so courteously, and the night, besides, was so
inclement, and the gleam from the muslin-curtained windows of the house
before which they had halted looked so inviting, that at length they
yielded. Mr. Yorke, after having alighted from his gig, which he left in
charge of a man who issued from an outbuilding on his arrival, led the
way in.

It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a little in his
phraseology. Now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and anon he expressed himself
in very pure English. His manner seemed liable to equal alternations. He
could be polite and affable, and he could be blunt and rough. His station
then you could not easily determine by his speech and demeanour. Perhaps
the appearance of his residence may decide it.

The men he recommended to take the kitchen way, saying that he would 'see
them served wi' summat to taste presently.' The gentlemen were ushered in
at the front entrance. They found themselves in a matted hall, lined
almost to the ceiling with pictures. Through this they were conducted to
a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate; the most cheerful
of rooms it appeared as a whole, and when you came to examine details,
the enlivening effect was not diminished. There was no splendour, but
there was taste everywhere, unusual taste, the taste, you would have
said, of a travelled man, a scholar, and a gentleman. A series of Italian
views decked the walls. Each of these was a specimen of true art. A
connoisseur had selected them; they were genuine and valuable. Even by
candle-light the bright clear skies, the soft distances, with blue air
quivering between the eye and the hills, the fresh tints and well-massed
lights and shadows, charmed the view. The subjects were all pastoral, the
scenes were all sunny. There was a guitar and some music on a sofa; there
were cameos, beautiful miniatures; a set of Grecian-looking vases on the
mantelpiece; there were books well arranged in two elegant bookcases.

Mr. Yorke bade his guests be seated. He then rang for wine. To the
servant who brought it he gave hospitable orders for the refreshment of
the men in the kitchen. The rector remained standing; he seemed not to
like his quarters; he would not touch the wine his host offered him.

'E'en as you will,' remarked Mr. Yorke. 'I reckon you're thinking of
Eastern customs, Mr. Helstone, and you'll not eat nor drink under my
roof, feared we suld be forced to be friends; but I am not so particular
or superstitious. You might sup the contents of that decanter, and you
might give me a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I'd hold
myself free to oppose you at every turn still, in every vestry-meeting
and justice-meeting where we encountered one another.'

'It is just what I should expect of you, Mr. Yorke.'

'Does it agree wi' ye now, Mr. Helstone, to be riding out after rioters,
of a wet night, at your age?'

'It always agrees with me to be doing my duty; and in this case my duty
is a thorough pleasure. To hunt down vermin is a noble occupation, fit
for an Archbishop.'

'Fit for ye, at ony rate. But where's t' curate? He's happen gone to
visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he's happen hunting down vermin
in another direction.'

'He is doing garrison-duty at Hollow's-miln.'

'You left him a sup o' wine, I hope, Bob' (turning to Mr. Moore), 'to
keep his courage up?'

He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly--still addressing
Moore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned chair by the
fireside--'Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take the
sofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not this. It belangs to me,
and nob'dy else.'

'Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke?' asked Moore, lazily
vacating the place in obedience to orders.

'My father war afore me, and that's all t' answer I sall gie thee; and
it's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for the main feck o' his
notions.'

'Moore, are you ready to go?' inquired the Rector.

'Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's
an ill lad, and wants correcting.'

'Why, sir? what have I done?'

'Made thyself enemies on every hand.'

'What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether your
Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?'

'Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien amang us. His father
would never have talked i' that way.--Go back to Antwerp, where you were
born and bred, mauvaise tête!'

'Mauvaise tête vous-même, je ne fais que mon devoir; quant à vos
lourdauds de paysans, je m'en moque!'

'En ravanche, mon garçon, nos lourdauds de paysans se moqueront de toi;
sois en certain,' replied Yorke, speaking with nearly as pure a French
accent as Gérard Moore.

'C'est bon! c'est bon! Et puisque cela m'est égal, que mes amis ne s'en
inquiètent pas.'

'Tes amis! où sont-ils, tes amis?'

'Je fais êcho, Où sont-ils? et je suis fort aise que l'écho seul y
répond. Au diable les amis! Je me souviens encore du moment où mon père
et mes oncles Gérard appellèrent autour d'eux leurs amis et Dieu sait si
les amis se sont empressés d'accourir a leur secours! Tenez, M. Yorke, ce
mot, ami, m'irrite trop; ne m'en parlez plus.'

'Comme tu voudras.'

And here Mr. Yorke held his peace; and while he sits leaning back in his
three-cornered carved oak chair, I will snatch my opportunity to sketch
the portrait of this French-speaking Yorkshire gentleman.



Chapter 4 - Mr. Yorke (Continued)


A Yorkshire gentleman he was, par excellence, in every point; about
fifty-five years old, but looking at first sight still older, for his
hair was silver white. His forehead was broad, not high; his face fresh
and hale; the harshness of the north was seen in his features, as it was
heard in his voice; every trait was thoroughly English--not a Norman line
anywhere; it was an inelegant, unclassic, unaristoctatic mould of visage.
Fine people would perhaps have called it vulgar; sensible people would
have termed it characteristic; shrewd people would have delighted in it
for the pith, sagacity, intelligence, the rude yet real originality
marked in every lineament, latent in every furrow. But it was an
indocile, a scornful, and a sarcastic face--the face of a man difficult
to lead, and impossible to drive. His stature was rather tall, and he was
well made and wiry, and had a stately integrity of port; there was not a
suspicion of the clown about him anywhere.

I did not find it easy to sketch Mr. Yorke's person, but it is more
difficult to indicate his mind. If you expect to be treated to a
Perfection, reader, or even to a benevolent, philanthropic old gentleman
in him, you are mistaken. He has spoken with some sense and with some
good feeling to Mr. Moore, but you are not thence to conclude that he
always spoke and thought justly and kindly.

Mr. Yorke, in the first place, was without the organ of veneration--a
great want, and which throws a man wrong on every point where veneration
is required. Secondly, he was without the organ of Comparison--a
deficiency which strips a man of sympathy; and thirdly, he had too little
of the organs of Benevolence and Ideality, which took the glory and
softness from his nature, and for him diminished those divine qualities
throughout the universe.

The want of veneration made him intolerant to those above him--kings and
nobles and priests, dynasties and parliaments and establishments, with
all their doings, most of their enactments, their forms, their rights,
their claims, were to him an abomination, all rubbish; he found no use or
pleasure in them, and believed it would be clear gain, and no damage to
the world, if its high places were razed, and their occupants crushed in
the fall. The want of veneration, too, made him dead at heart to the
electric delight of admiring what is admirable; it dried up a thousand
pure sources of enjoyment; it withered a thousand vivid pleasures. He was
not irreligious, though a member of no sect; but his religion could not
be that of one who knows how to venerate. He believed in God and heaven;
but his God and heaven were those of a man in whom awe, imagination, and
tenderness lack.

The weakness of his powers of comparison made him inconsistent; while he
professed some excellent general doctrines of mutual toleration and
forbearance, he cherished towards certain classes a bigoted antipathy. He
spoke of 'parsons' and all who belonged to parsons, of 'lords' and the
appendages of lords, with a harshness, sometimes an insolence, as unjust
as it was insufferable. He could not place himself in the position of
those he vituperated; he could not compare their errors with their
temptations, their defects with their disadvantages; he could not realise
the effect of such and such circumstances on himself similarly situated,
and he would often express the most ferocious and tyrannical wishes
regarding those who had acted, as he thought, ferociously and
tyrannically. To judge by his threats, he would have employed arbitrary,
even cruel, means to advance the cause of freedom and equality. Equality!
yes, Mr. Yorke talked about equality, but at heart he was a proud man:
very friendly to his workpeople, very good to all who were beneath him,
and submitted quietly to be beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub to
whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no man) his superior. Revolt
was in his blood: he could not bear control; his father, his grandfather
before him, could not bear it, and his children after him never could.

The want of general benevolence made him very impatient of imbecility,
and of all faults which grated on his strong, shrewd nature; it left no
check to his cutting sarcasm. As he was not merciful, he would sometimes
wound and wound again, without noticing how much he hurt, or caring how
deep he thrust.

As to the paucity of ideality in his mind, that can scarcely be called a
fault: a fine ear for music, a correct eye for colour and form, left him
the quality of taste; and who cares for imagination? Who does not think
it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute, akin to weakness, perhaps
partaking of frenzy--a disease rather than a gift of the mind?

Probably all think it so but those who possess, or fancy they possess it.
To hear them speak, you would believe that their hearts would be cold if
that elixir did not flow about them, that their eyes would be dim if that
flame did not refine their vision, that they would be lonely if this
strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that it imparted some
glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some tranquil joy to
autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel. All illusion,
of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it
for gold.

As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he considered it
a most superfluous quality in others. Painters and musicians he could
tolerate, and even encourage, because he could relish the results of
their art; he could see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the
pleasure of good music; but a quiet poet--whatever force struggled,
whatever fire glowed in his breast--if he could not have played the man
in the counting-house, or the tradesman in the Piece Hall, might have
lived despised, and died scorned, under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.

And as there are' many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is well that the
true poet, quiet externally though he may be, has often a truculent
spirit under his placidity, and is full of shrewdness in his meekness,
and can measure the whole stature of those who look down on him, and
correctly ascertain the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain him
for not having followed. It is happy that he can have his own bliss, his
own society with his great friend and goddess Nature, quite independent
of those who find little pleasure in him, and in whom he finds no
pleasure at all. It is just that while the world and circumstances often
turn a dark, cold side to him--and properly, too, because he first turns
a dark, cold, careless side to them--he should be able to maintain a
festal brightness and cherishing glow in his bosom, which makes all
bright and genial for him; while strangers, perhaps, deem his existence a
Polar winter never gladdened by a sun. The true poet is not one whit to
be pitied, and he is apt to laugh in his sleeve when any misguided
sympathiser whines over his wrongs. Even when utilitarians sit in
judgment on him, and pronounce him and his art useless, he hears the
sentence with such a hard derision, such a broad, deep, comprehensive,
and merciless contempt of the unhappy Pharisees who pronounce it, that he
is rather to be chidden than condoled with. These, however, are not Mr.
Yorke's reflections, and it is with Mr. Yorke we have at present to do.

I have told you some of his faults, reader: as to his good points, he was
one of the most honourable and capable men in Yorkshire; even those who
disliked him were forced to respect him. He was much beloved by the poor,
because he was thoroughly kind and very fatherly to them. To his workmen
he was considerate and cordial: when he dismissed them from an
occupation, he would try to set them on to something else, or, if that
was impossible, help them to remove with their families to a district
where work might possibly be had. It must also be remarked that if, as
sometimes chanced, any individual amongst his 'hands' showed signs of
insubordination, Yorke--who, like many who abhor being controlled, knew
how to control with vigour--had the secret of crushing rebellion in the
germ, of eradicating it like a bad weed, so that it never spread or
developed within the sphere of his authority. Such being the happy state
of his own affairs, he felt himself at liberty to speak with the utmost
severity of those who were differently situated, to ascribe whatever was
unpleasant in their position entirely to their own fault, to sever
himself from the masters, and advocate freely the cause of the
operatives.

Mr. Yorke's family was the first and oldest in the district; and he,
though not the wealthiest, was one of the most influential men. His
education had been good. In his youth, before the French Revolution, he
had travelled on the Continent He was an adept in the French and Italian
languages. During a two years' sojourn in Italy he had collected many
good paintings and tasteful rarities, with which his residence was now
adorned. His manners, when he liked, were those of a finished gentleman
of the old school; his conversation, when he was disposed to please, was
singularly interesting and original; and if he usually expressed himself
in the Yorkshire dialect; it was because he chose to do so, preferring
his native Doric to a more refined vocabulary. 'A Yorkshire burr,' he
affirmed, 'was as much better than a cockney's lisp as a bull's bellow
than a ratton's squeak.'

Mr. Yorke knew every one, and was known by every one, for miles round;
yet his intimate acquaintances were very few. Himself thoroughly
original, he had no taste for what was ordinary: a racy, rough character,
high or low, ever found acceptance with him; a refined, insipid
personage, however exalted in station, was his aversion. He would spend
an hour any time in talking freely with a shrewd workman of his own, or
with some queer, sagacious old woman amongst his cottagers, when he would
have grudged a moment to a commonplace fine gentleman or to the most
fashionable and elegant, if frivolous, lady. His preferences on these
points he carried to an extreme, forgetting that there may be amiable and
even admirable characters amongst those who cannot be original. Yet he
made exceptions to his own rule. There was a certain order of mind,
plain, ingenuous, neglecting refinement, almost devoid of
intellectuality, and quite incapable of appreciating what was
intellectual in him, but which, at the same time, never felt disgust at
his rudeness, was not easily wounded by his sarcasm, did not closely
analyse his sayings, doings, or opinions, with which he was peculiarly at
ease, and, consequently, which he peculiarly preferred. He was lord
amongst such characters. They, while submitting implicitly to his
influence, never acknowledged, because they never reflected on, his
superiority; they were quite tractable therefore without running the
smallest danger of being servile; and their unthinking, easy, artless
insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient, to Mr. Yorke as
that of the chair he sat on, or of the floor he trod.

It will have been observed that he was not quite uncordial with Mr.
Moore. He had two or three reasons for entertaining a faint partiality to
that gentleman. It may sound odd, but the first of these was that Moore
spoke English with a foreign, and French with a perfectly pure, accent
and that his dark, thin face, with its fine though rather wasted lines,
had a most anti-British and anti-Yorkshire look These points seem
frivolous, unlikely to influence a character like Yorke's; but the fact
is they recalled old, perhaps pleasurable associations they brought back
his travelling, his youthful days. He had seen, amidst Italian cities and
scenes, faces like Moore's; he had heard, in Parisian cafes and theatres,
voices like his. He was young then, and when he looked at and listened to
the alien, he seemed young again.

Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had dealings with him.
That was a more substantial, though by no means a more agreeable tie; for
as his firm had been connected with Moore's in business, it had also, in
some measure, been implicated in its losses. Thirdly, he had found Robert
himself a sharp man of business. He saw reason to anticipate that he
would, in the end, by one means or another, make money; and he respected
both his resolution and acuteness--perhaps also, his hardness. A fourth
circumstance which drew them together was that of Mr. Yorke being one of
the guardians of the minor on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated;
consequently Moore, in the course of his alterations and improvements,
had frequent occasion to consult him.

As to the other guest now present in Mr. Yorke's parlour, Mr. Helstone,
between him and his host there existed a double antipathy--the antipathy
of nature and that of circumstances. The free-thinker hated the
formalist, the lover of liberty detested the disciplinarian. Besides, it
was said that in former years they had been rival suitors of the same
lady.

Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, noted for his preference
of sprightly and dashing women: a showy shape and air, a lively wit, a
ready tongue, chiefly seemed to attract him. He never, however, proposed
to any of these brilliant belles whose society he sought; and all at once
he seriously fell in love with and eagerly wooed a girl who presented a
complete contrast to those he had hitherto noticed--a girl with the face
of a Madonna; a girl of living marble--stillness personified. No matter
that, when he spoke to her, she only answered him in monosyllables; no
matter that his sighs seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned,
that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests,
paid him no respect and no attention; no matter that she seemed the
opposite of everything feminine he had ever in his whole life been known
to admire. For him Mary Cave was perfect, because somehow, for some
reason--no doubt he had a reason--he loved her.

Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved Mary too or, at
any rate, he fancied her. Several others admired her, for she was
beautiful as a monumental angel; but the clergyman was preferred for his
office's sake--that office probably investing him with some of the
illusion necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and which
Miss Cave did not find in any of the young wool-staplers, her other
adorers. Mr. Helstone neither had, nor professed to have, Mr. Yorke's
absorbing passion for her. He had none of the humble reverence which
seemed to subdue most of her suitors; he saw her more as she really was
than the rest did. He was, consequently, more master of her and himself.
She accepted him at the first offer, and they were married.

Nature never intended Mr. Helstone to make a very good husband,
especially to a quiet wife. He thought so long as a woman was silent
nothing ailed her, and she wanted nothing. If she did not complain of
solitude, solitude, however continued, could not be irksome to her. If
she did not talk and put herself forward, express a partiality for this,
an aversion to that, she had no partialities or aversions, and it was
useless to consult her tastes. He made no pretence of comprehending
women, or comparing them with men. They were a different, probably a very
inferior, order of existence. A wife could not be her husband's
companion, much less his confidante, much less his stay. His wife, after
a year or two, was of no great importance to him in any shape; and when
she one day, as he thought, suddenly--for he had scarcely noticed her
decline--but, as others thought, gradually, took her leave of him and of
life, and there was only a still; beautiful-featured mould of clay left,
cold and white, in the conjugal couch, he felt his bereavement--who shall
say how little? Yet, perhaps, more than he seemed to feel it; for he was
not a man from whom grief easily wrung tears.

His dry-eyed and sober mourning scandalised an old housekeeper, and
likewise a female attendant, who had waited upon Mrs. Helstone in her
sickness, and who, perhaps, had had opportunities of learning more of the
deceased lady's nature, of her capacity for feeling and loving, than her
husband knew. They gossiped together over the corpse, related anecdotes,
with embellishments of her lingering decline, and its real or supposed
cause. In short, they worked each other up to some indignation against
the austere little man, who sat examining papers in an adjoining room,
unconscious of what opprobrium he was the object.

Mrs. Helstone was hardly under the sod, when rumours began to be rife in
the neighbourhood that she had died of a broken heart. These magnified
quickly into reports of hard usage, and, finally, details of harsh
treatment on the part of her husband--reports grossly untrue, but not the
less eagerly received on that account. Mr. Yorke heard them, partly
believed them. Already, of course, he had no friendly feeling to his
successful rival. Though himself a married man now, and united to a woman
who seemed a complete contrast to Mary Gave in all respects, he could not
forget the great disappointment of his life; and when he heard that what
would have been so precious to him had been neglected, perhaps abused, by
another, he conceived for that other a rooted and bitter animosity. Of
the nature and strength of this animosity Mr. Helstone was but half
aware. He neither knew how much Yorke had loved Mary Gave, what he had
felt on losing her, nor was he conscious of the calumnies concerning his
treatment of her, familiar to every ear in the neighbourhood but his own.
He believed political and religious differences alone separated him and
Mr. Yorke. Had he known how the case really stood, he would hardly have
been induced by any persuasion to cross his former rival's threshold.

Mr. Yorke did not resume his lecture of Robert Moore. The conversation
ere long recommenced in a more general form, though still in a somewhat
disputative tone. The unquiet state of the country, the various
depredations lately committed on mill-property in the district, supplied
abundant matter for disagreement, especially as each of the three
gentlemen present differed more or less in his views on these subjects.
Mr. Helstone thought the masters aggrieved, the workpeople unreasonable;
he condemned sweepingly the widespread spirit of disaffection against
constituted authorities, the growing indisposition to bear with patience
evils he regarded as inevitable. The cures he prescribed were vigorous
government interference, strict magisterial vigilance; when necessary,
prompt military coercion.

Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this interference, vigilance, and
coercion would feed those who were hungry, give work to those who wanted
work, and whom no man would hire. He scouted the idea of inevitable
evils. He said public patience was a camel, on whose back the last atom
that could be borne had already been laid, and that resistance was now a
duty; the widespread spirit of disaffection against constituted
authorities he regarded as the most promising sign of the times; the
masters, he allowed, were truly aggrieved, but their main grievance had
been heaped upon them by a 'corrupt, base and bloody' government (these
were Mr. Yorke's epithets). Madmen like Pitt, demons like Castlereagh,
mischievous idiots like Perceval, were the tyrants, the curses of the
country, the destroyers of her trade. It was their infatuated
perseverance in an unjustifiable, a hopeless, a ruinous war, which had
brought the nation to its present pass. It was their monstrously
oppressive taxation, it was the infamous 'Orders in Council'--the
originators of which deserved impeachment and the scaffold, if ever
public men did--that hung a millstone about England's neck.

'But where was the use of talking?' he demanded 'what chance was there
of reason being heard in a land that was king-ridden, priest-ridden,
peer-ridden; where a lunatic was the nominal monarch, an unprincipled
debauchee the real ruler; where such an insult to common sense as
hereditary legislators was tolerated; where such a humbug as a bench of
bishops, such an arrogant abuse as a pampered, persecuting established
church was endured and venerated; where a standing army was maintained,
and a host of lazy parsons, and the pauper families were kept on the fat
of the land?'

Mr. Helstone, rising up and putting on his shovel-hat, observed in reply,
'that in the course of his life he had met with two or three instances
where sentiments of this sort had been very bravely maintained so long as
health, strength, and worldly prosperity had been the allies of him who
professed them; but there came a time,' he said, 'to all men, "when the
keepers of the house should tremble; when they should be afraid of that
which is high, and fear should be in the way," and that time was the test
of the advocate of anarchy and rebellion, the enemy of religion and
order. Ere now,' he affirmed, 'he had been called upon to read those
prayers our church has provided for the sick by the miserable dying-bed
of one of her most rancorous foes; he had seen such a one stricken with
remorse, solicitous to discover a place for repentance, and unable to
find any, though he sought it carefully with tears. He must forewarn Mr.
Yorke that blasphemy against God and the king was a deadly sin, and that
there was such a thing as "judgment to come."'

Mr. Yorke 'believed fully that there was such a thing as judgment to
come. If it were otherwise, it would be difficult to imagine how all the
scoundrels who seemed triumphant in this world, who broke innocent hearts
with impunity, abused unmerited privileges, were a scandal to honourable
callings, took the bread out of the mouths of the poor, browbeat the
humble, and truckled meanly to the rich and proud, were to be properly
paid off, in such coin as they had earned. But,' he added, 'whenever he
got low-spirited about such-like goings-on, and their seeming success in
this mucky lump of a planet, he just reached down t' owd book' (pointing
to a great Bible in the bookcase), 'opened it like at a chance, and he
was sure to light of a verse blazing wi' a blue brimstone low that set
all straight. He knew,' he said, 'where some folk war bound for, just as
weel as if an angel wi' great white wings had come in ower t' door-stone
and told him.'

'Sir,' said Mr. Helstone, collecting all his dignity--'sir, the great
knowledge of man is to know himself, and the bourne whither his own steps
tend.'

'Ay, ay. You'll recollect, Mr. Helstone, that Ignorance was carried away
from the very gates of heaven, borne through the air, and thrust in at a
door in the side of the hill which led down to hell.'

'Nor have I forgotten, Mr. Yorke, that Vain-Confidence, not seeing the
way before him, fell into a deep pit, which was on purpose there made by
the prince of the grounds, to catch vain-glorious fools withal, and was
dashed to pieces with his fall.'

'Now,' interposed Mr. Moore, who had hitherto sat a silent but amused
spectator of this wordy combat, and whose indifference to the party
politics of the day, as well as to the gossip of the neighbourhood, made
him an impartial, if apathetic, judge of the merits of such an encounter,
'you have both sufficiently black-balled each other, and proved how
cordially you detest each other, and how wicked you think each other. For
my part my hate is still running in such a strong current against the
fellows who have broken my frames that I have none to spare for my
private acquaintance, and still less for such a vague thing as a sect or
a government. But really, gentlemen, you both seem very bad by your own
showing--worse than ever I suspected you to be--I dare not stay all night
with a rebel and blasphemer like you, Yorke; and I hardly dare ride home
with a cruel and tyrannical ecclesiastic like Mr. Helstone.'

'I am going, however, Mr. Moore,' said the rector sternly. 'Come with me
or not, as you please.'

'Nay, he shall not have the choice, he shall go with you,' responded
Yorke. 'It's midnight, and past; and I'll have nob'dy staying up i' my
house any longer. Ye mun all go.'

He rang the bell.

'Deb,' said he to the servant who answered it, 'clear them folk out o' t'
kitchen, and lock t' doors, and be off to bed. Here is your way,
gentlemen,' he continued to his guests; and, lighting them through the
passage, he fairly put them out at his front-door.

They met their party hurrying out pell-mell by the back way. Their horses
stood at the gate; they mounted and rode off, Moore laughing at their
abrupt dismissal, Helstone deeply indignant thereat.



Chapter 5 - Hollow's Cottage


Moore's good spirits were still with him when he rose next morning. He
and Joe Scott had both spent the night in the mill, availing themselves
of certain sleeping accommodations producible from recesses in the front
and back counting-houses. The master, always an early riser, was up
somewhat sooner even than usual. He awoke his man by singing a French
song as he made his toilet.

'Ye're not custen dahm, then, maister?' cried Joe.

'Not a stiver, mon garçon--which means, my lad: get up, and we'll take a
turn through the mill before the hands come in, and I'll explain my
future plans. We'll have the machinery yet, Joseph. You never heard of
Bruce, perhaps?'

'And th' arrand (spider)? Yes, but I hev. I've read th' history o'
Scotland, and happen knaw as mich on't as ye; and I understand ye to mean
to say ye'll persevere.'

'I do.'

'Is there mony o' your mak' i' your country?' inquired Joe, as he folded
up his temporary bed, and put it away.

'In my country! Which is my country?'

'Why, France isn't it?'

'Not it, indeed! The circumstance of the French having seized Antwerp,
where I was born, does not make me a Frenchman.'

'Holland, then?'

'I am not a Dutchman. Now you are confounding Antwerp with Amsterdam.'

'Flanders?'

'I scorn the insinuation Joe! I a Flemish! Have I a Flemish face! Have I
a Flemish face--the clumsy nose standing out, the mean forehead falling
back, the pale blue eyes "è fleur de tête"? Am I all body and no legs,
like a Flamand? But you don't know what they are like, those
Netherlanders. Joe, I'm an Anversois. My mother was an Anversoise, though
she came of French lineage, which is the reason I speak French.'

'But your father war Yorkshire, which maks ye a bit Yorkshire too; and
onybody may see ye're akin to us, ye're so keen o' making brass, and
getting forrards.'

'Joe, you're an impudent dog; but I've always been accustomed to a
boorish sort of insolence from my youth up. The "classe ouvrière"; that
is, the working people in Belgium bear themselves brutally towards their
employers; and by brutally, Joe, I mean brutalement--which, perhaps, when
properly translated, should be roughly.'

'We allus speak our minds i' this country; and them young parsons and
grand folk fro' London is shocked at wer "incivility;" and we like weel
enough to gi'e 'em summat to be shocked at, 'cause it's sport to us to
watch 'em turn up the whites o' their een, and spreed out their bits o'
hands, like as they're flayed wi' bogards, and then to hear 'em say,
nipping off their words short like, "Dear! dear! Whet seveges! How very
corse!"'

'You are savages, Joe. You don't suppose you're civilised, do you?'

'Middling, middling, maister. I reckon 'at us manufacturing lads i' th'
north is a deal more intelligent, and knaws a deal more nor th' farming
folk i' th' south. Trade sharpens wer wits; and them that's mechanics
like me is forced to think. Ye know, what wi' looking after machinery and
sich like, I've getten into that way that when I see an effect, I look
straight out for a cause, and I oft lig hold on't to purpose; and then I
like reading, and I'm curious to knaw what them that reckons to govern us
aims to do for us and wi' us. And there's many 'cuter nor me; there's
many a one amang them greasy chaps 'at smells o' oil, and amang them
dyers wi' blue and black skins that has a long head, and that can tell
what a fooil of a law is, as well as ye or old Yorke and a deal better
nor soft uns like Christopher Sykes o' Whinbury, and greet hectoring
nowts like yond' Irish Peter, Helstone's curate.'

'You think yourself a clever fellow, I know, Scott.'

'Ay! I'm fairish. I can tell cheese fro' chalk, and I'm varry weel aware
that I've improved sich opportunities as I have had, a deal better nor
some 'at reckons to be aboon me; but there's thousands i' Yorkshire
that's as good as me, and a two-three that's better.'

'You're a great man--you're a sublime fellow; but you're a prig, a
conceited noodle with it all, Joe! You need not to think that because
you've picked up a little knowledge of practical mathematics, and because
you have found some scantling of the elements of chemistry at the bottom
of a dyeing vat, that therefore you're a neglected man of science; and
you need not to suppose that because the course of trade does not always
run smooth, and you, and such as you, are sometimes short of work and of
bread, that therefore your class are martyrs, and that the whole form of
government under which you live is wrong. And, moreover, you need not for
a moment to insinuate that the virtues have taken refuge in cottages and
wholly abandoned slated houses. Let me tell you, I particularly abominate
that sort of trash, because I know so well that human nature is human
nature everywhere, whether under tile or thatch, and that in every
specimen of human nature that breathes, vice and virtue are ever found
blended, in smaller or greater proportions, and that the proportion is
not determined by station. I have seen villains who were rich, and I have
seen villains who were poor, and I have seen villains who were neither
rich nor poor, but who had realised Agar's wish, and lived in fair and
modest competency. The clock is going to strike six. Away with you, Joe,
and ring the mill bell.'

It was now the middle of the month of February; by six o'clock therefore
dawn was just beginning to steal on night, to penetrate with a pale ray
its brown obscurity, and give a demi-translucence to its opaque shadows.
Pale enough that ray was on this particular morning: no colour tinged the
east, no flush warmed it. To see what a heavy lid day slowly lifted, what
a wan glance she flung along the hills, you would have thought the sun's
fire quenched in last night's floods. The breath of this morning was
chill as its aspect; a raw wind stirred the mass of night-cloud, and
showed, as it slowly rose, leaving a colourless, silver-gleaming ring all
round the horizon, not blue sky, but a stratum of paler vapour beyond. It
had ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden, and the pools and rivulets
were full.

The mill-windows were alight, the bell still rung loud, and now the
little children came running in, in too great a hurry, let us hope, to
feel very much nipped by the inclement air; and indeed, by contrast,
perhaps the morning appeared rather favourable to them than otherwise,
for they had often come to their work that winter through snowstorms,
through heavy rain, through hard frost.

Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them pass. He counted them as
they went by. To those who came rather late he said a word of reprimand,
which was a little more sharply repeated by Joe Scott when the lingerers
reached the work-rooms. Neither master nor overlooker spoke savagely.
They were not savage men either of them, though it appeared both were
rigid, for they fined a delinquent who came considerably too late. Mr.
Moore made him pay his penny down ere he entered, and informed him that
the next repetition of the fault would cost him twopence.

Rules, no doubt, are necessary in such cases, and coarse and cruel
masters will make coarse and cruel rules, which, at the time we treat of
at least, they used sometimes to enforce tyrannically; but though I
describe imperfect characters (every character in this book will be found
to be more or less imperfect, my pen refusing to draw anything in the
model line), I have not undertaken to handle degraded or utterly infamous
ones. Child-torturers, slave masters and drivers, I consign to the hands
of jailers. The novelist may be excused from sullying his page with the
record of their deeds.

Instead, then, of harrowing up my reader's soul and delighting his organ
of wonder with effective descriptions of stripes and scourgings, I am
happy to be able to inform him that neither Mr. Moore nor his overlooker
ever struck a child in their mill. Joe had, indeed, once very severely
flogged a son of his own for telling a lie and persisting in it; but,
like his employer, he was too phlegmatic, too calm, as well as too
reasonable a man, to make corporal chastisement other than the exception
to his treatment of the young.

Mr. Moore haunted his mill, his mill-yard, his dyehouse, and his
warehouse till the sickly dawn strengthened into day. The sun even rose,
at least a white disc, clear, tintless, and almost chill-looking as ice,
peeped over the dark crest of a hill, changed to silver the livid edge of
the cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole length of the den,
or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are at present limited. It was
eight o'clock; the mill lights were all extinguished; the signal was
given for breakfast; the children, released for half an hour from toil,
betook themselves to the little tin cans which held their coffee, and to
the small baskets which contained their allowance of bread. Let us hope
they have enough to eat; it would be a pity were it otherwise.

And now at last Mr. Moore quitted the mill-yard, and bent his steps to
his dwelling-house. It was only a short distance from the factory, but
the hedge and high bank on each side of the lane which conducted to it
seemed to give it something of the appearance and feeling of seclusion.
It was a small, whitewashed place, with a green porch over the door;
scanty brown stalks showed in the garden soil near this porch, and
likewise beneath the windows--stalks budless and flowerless now, but
giving dim prediction of trained and blooming creepers for summer days. A
grass plat and borders fronted the cottage. The borders presented only
black mould yet, except where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots of
snowdrop or crocus peeped, green as emerald, from the earth. The spring
was late; it had been a severe and prolonged winter; the last deep snow
had but just disappeared before yesterday's rains; on the hills, indeed,
white remnants of it yet gleamed, flecking the hollows and crowning the
peaks; the lawn was not verdant, but bleached, as was the grass on the
bank, and under the hedge in the lane. Three trees, gracefully grouped,
rose beside the cottage. They were not lofty, but having no rivals near,
they looked well and imposing where they grew. Such was Mr. Moore's
home--a snug nest for content and contemplation, but one within which the
wings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.

Its air of modest comfort seemed to possess no particular attraction for
its owner. Instead of entering the house at once, he fetched a spade from
a little shed and began to work in the garden. For about a quarter of an
hour he dug on uninterrupted. At length, however, a window opened, and a
female voice called to him,--

'Eh, bien! Tu ne déjeûnes pas ce matin?'

The answer, and the rest of the conversation, was in French; but as this
is an English book, I shall translate it into English.

'Is breakfast ready, Hortense?'

'Certainly; it has been ready half an hour.'

'Then I am ready too. I have a canine hunger.'

He threw down his spade, and entered the house. The narrow passage
conducted him to a small parlour, where a breakfast of coffee and bread
and butter, with the somewhat un-English accompaniment of stewed pears,
was spread on the table. Over these viands presided the lady who had
spoken from the window. I must describe her before I go any farther.

She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore--perhaps she was thirty-five,
tall, and proportionately stout; she had very black hair, for the present
twisted up in curl-papers, a high colour in her cheeks, a small nose, a
pair of little black eyes. The lower part of her face was large in
proportion to the upper; her forehead was small and rather corrugated;
she had a fretful though not an ill-natured expression of countenance;
there was something in her whole appearance one felt inclined to be half
provoked with and half amused at. The strangest point was her dress--a
stuff petticoat and a striped cotton camisole. The petticoat was short,
displaying well a pair of feet and ankles which left much to be desired
in the article of symmetry.

You will think I have depicted a remarkable slattern, reader; not at all.
Hortense Moore (she was Mr. Moore's sister) was a very orderly,
economical person. The petticoat, camisole, and curl-papers were her
morning costume, in which, of forenoons, she had always been accustomed
to 'go her household ways' in her own country. She did not choose to
adopt English fashions because she was obliged to live in England; she
adhered to her old Belgian modes, quite satisfied that there was a merit
in so doing.

Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself--an opinion not wholly
undeserved, for she possessed some good and sterling qualities; but she
rather over-estimated the kind and degree of these qualities; and quite
left out of the account sundry little defects which accompanied them. You
could never have persuaded her that she was a prejudiced and
narrow-minded person; that she was too susceptible on the subject of her
own dignity and importance, and too apt to take offence about trifles;
yet all this was true. However, where her claims to distinction were not
opposed, and where her prejudices were not offended, she could be kind
and friendly enough. To her two brothers (for there was another Gérard
Moore besides Robert) she was very much attached. As the sole remaining
representatives of their decayed family, the persons of both were almost
sacred in her eyes. Of Louis, however, she knew less than of Robert. He
had been sent to England when a mere boy, and had received his education
at an English school. His education not being such as to adapt him for
trade, perhaps, too, his natural bent not inclining him to mercantile
pursuits, he had, when the blight of hereditary prospects rendered it
necessary for him to push his own fortune, adopted the very arduous and
very modest career of a teacher. He had been usher in a school, and was
said now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense, when she mentioned
Louis, described him as having what she called 'des moyens,' but as being
too backward and quiet. Her praise of Robert was in a different strain,
less qualified: she was very proud of him; she regarded him as the
greatest man in Europe; all he said and did was remarkable in her eyes,
and she expected others to behold him from the same point of view;
nothing could be more irrational, monstrous and infamous than opposition
from any quarter to Robert, unless it were opposition to herself.

Accordingly, as soon as the said Robert was seated at the
breakfast-table, and she had helped him to a portion of stewed pears, and
cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to pour out a flood of
amazement and horror at the transaction of last night, the destruction of
the frames.

'Quelle ideé! to destroy them. Quelle action honteuse! On voyait bien que
les ouvriers de ce pays étaient à la fois bêtes et méchants. C'était
absolument comme les domestiques anglais, les servantes surtout: rien
d'insupportable comme cette Sara, par exemple!'

'She looks clean and industrious,' Mr. Moore remarked.

'Looks! I don't know how she looks, and I do not say that she is
altogether dirty or idle, mais elle est d'une insolence! She disputed
with me a quarter of an hour yesterday about the cooking of the beef; she
said I boiled it to rags, that English people would never be able to eat
such a dish as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no better than greasy
warm water, and as to the choucroute, she affirms she cannot touch it!
That barrel we have in the cellar--delightfully prepared by my own
hands--she termed a tub of hog-wash, which means food for pigs. I am
harassed with the girl, and yet I cannot part with her lest I should get
a worse. You are in the same position with your workmen, pauvre cher
frère!'

'I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense.'

'It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but otherwise there
are certainly a thousand things which make me regret our native town. All
the world here appears to me ill-bred (mal-élevé). I find my habits
considered ridiculous. If a girl out of your mill chances to come into
the kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole preparing dinner (for
you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single dish), she sneers. If I
accept an invitation out to tea, which I have done once or twice, I
perceive I am put quite into the background; I have not that attention
paid me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family are the
Gérards, as we know, and the Moores also! They have a right to claim a
certain respect, and to feel wounded when it is withheld from them. In
Antwerp I was always treated with distinction; here, one would think that
when I open my lips in company I speak English with a ridiculous accent,
whereas I am quite assured that I pronounce it perfectly.'

'Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich; in England we were never known
but poor.'

'Precisely, and thus mercenary are mankind. Again, dear brother, last
Sunday, if you recollect, was very wet; accordingly I went to church in
my neat black sabots, objects one would not indeed wear in a fashionable
city but which in the country I have ever been accustomed to use for
walking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the aisle, composed and
tranquil, as I am always, four ladies, and as many gentlemen, laughed and
hid their faces behind their prayer-books.'

'Well, well I don't put on the sabots again. I told you before I thought
they were not quite the thing for this country.'

'But, brother, they are not common sabots, such as the peasantry wear. I
tell you, they are sabots noirs, très propres, très convenables. At Mons
and Leuze--cities not very far removed from the elegant capital of
Brussels--it is very seldom that the respectable people wear anything
else for walking in winter. Let any one try to wade the mud of the
Flemish chaussées in a pair of Paris brodequins, on m'en dirait des
nouvelles!'

'Never mind Mons and Leuze and the Flemish chaussées; do at Rome as the
Romans do. And as to the camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about
them either. I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask
Caroline Helstone.'

'Caroline! I ask Caroline? I consult her about my dress? It is she who on
all points should consult me. She is a child.'

'She is eighteen, or at least seventeen--old enough to know all about
gowns, petticoats, and chaussures.'

'Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother. Do not make her of more
consequence than she ought to be. At present she is modest and
unassuming: let us keep her so.'

'With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?'

'She will come at ten, as usual, to take her French lesson.'

'You don't find that she sneers at you, do you?'

'She does not. She appreciates me better than any one else here; but then
she has more intimate opportunities of knowing me. She sees that I have
education, intelligence, manner, principles--all, in short, which belongs
to a person well born and well bred.'

'Are you at all fond of her?'

'For fond I cannot say. I am not one who is prone to take violent
fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the more to be depended on.
I have a regard for her as my relative; her position also inspires
interest, and her conduct as my pupil has hitherto been such as rather to
enhance than diminish the attachment that springs from other causes.'

'She behaves pretty well at lessons?'

'To me she behaves very well; but you are conscious, brother, that I have
a manner calculated to repel over-familiarity, to win esteem, and to
command respect. Yet, possessed of penetration, I perceive dearly that
Caroline is not perfect, that there is much to be desired in her.'

'Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it amuse me with
an account of her faults.'

'Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your breakfast with relish,
after the fatiguing night you have passed. Caroline, then, is defective;
but with my forming hand and almost motherly care she may improve. There
is about her an occasional something--a reserve, I think--which I do not
quite like, because it is not sufficiently girlish and submissive; and
there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature, which put me out.
Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful indeed
sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformly sedate and
decorous, without being unaccountably pensive. I ever disapprove what is
not intelligible.'

'I don't understand your account in the least. What do you mean by
"unsettled hurries," for instance?'

'An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory explanation. I
sometimes, you are aware, make her read French poetry by way of practice
in pronunciation. She has in the course of her lessons gone through much
of Corneille and Racine, in a very stea