The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë

by Charlotte Bronte

  “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 telled ‘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 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 candlelight 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 Mill.”

  “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 écho, 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 à 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 IV.

  MR. YORKE ( continued ).

  Table of Contents

  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, unaristocratic 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 realize 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. An 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, of 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 sympathizer 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 re
bellion 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 raton’s squeak.”