“Do you like him yourself, William?”
“Me? I’m stalled o’ t’ curates, and so is t’ wife. They’ve no manners. They talk to poor folk fair as if they thought they were beneath them. They’re allus magnifying their office. It is a pity but their office could magnify them; but it does nought o’ t’ soart. I fair hate pride.”
“But you are proud in your own way yourself,” interposed Caroline. “You are what you call house-proud: you like to have everything handsome about you. Sometimes you look as if you were almost too proud to take your wages. When you were out of work, you were too proud to get anything on credit. But for your children, I believe you would rather have starved than gone to the shops without money; and when I wanted to give you something, what a difficulty I had in making you take it!”
“It is partly true, Miss Caroline. Ony day I’d rather give than take, especially from sich as ye. Look at t’ difference between us. Ye’re a little, young, slender lass, and I’m a great strong man; I’m rather more nor twice your age. It is not my part, then, I think, to tak fro’ ye — to be under obligations (as they say) to ye. And that day ye came to our house, and called me to t’ door, and offered me five shillings, which I doubt ye could ill spare — for ye’ve no fortin’, I know — that day I war fair a rebel, a radical, an insurrectionist; and ye made me so. I thought it shameful that, willing and able as I was to work, I suld be i’ such a condition that a young cratur about the age o’ my own eldest lass suld think it needful to come and offer me her bit o’ brass.”
“I suppose you were angry with me, William?”
“I almost was, in a way. But I forgave ye varry soon. Ye meant well. Ay, I am proud, and so are ye ; but your pride and mine is t’ raight mak — what we call i’ Yorkshire clean pride — such as Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne knows nought about. Theirs is mucky pride. Now, I shall teach my lasses to be as proud as Miss Shirley there, and my lads to be as proud as myseln; but I dare ony o’ ‘em to be like t’ curates. I’d lick little Michael if I seed him show any signs o’ that feeling.”
“What is the difference, William?”
“Ye know t’ difference weel enow, but ye want me to get a gate o’ talking. Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne is almost too proud to do aught for theirseln; we are almost too proud to let anybody do aught for us. T’ curates can hardly bide to speak a civil word to them they think beneath them; we can hardly bide to tak an uncivil word fro’ them that thinks themseln aboon us.”
“Now, William, be humble enough to tell me truly how you are getting on in the world. Are you well off?”
“Miss Shirley, I am varry well off. Since I got into t’ gardening line, wi’ Mr. Yorke’s help, and since Mr. Hall (another o’ t’ raight sort) helped my wife to set up a bit of a shop, I’ve nought to complain of. My family has plenty to eat and plenty to wear. My pride makes me find means to have an odd pound now and then against rainy days; for I think I’d die afore I’d come to t’ parish; and me and mine is content. But t’ neighbours is poor yet. I see a great deal of distress.”
“And, consequently, there is still discontent, I suppose?” inquired Miss Keeldar.
“Consequently — ye say right — consequently. In course, starving folk cannot be satisfied or settled folk. The country’s not in a safe condition — I’ll say so mich!”
“But what can be done? What more can I do, for instance?”
“Do? Ye can do not mich, poor young lass! Ye’ve gi’en your brass; ye’ve done well. If ye could transport your tenant, Mr. Moore, to Botany Bay, ye’d happen do better. Folks hate him.”
“William, for shame!” exclaimed Caroline warmly. “If folks do hate him, it is to their disgrace, not his. Mr. Moore himself hates nobody. He only wants to do his duty, and maintain his rights. You are wrong to talk so.”
“I talk as I think. He has a cold, unfeeling heart, yond’ Moore.”
“But,” interposed Shirley, “supposing Moore was driven from the country, and his mill razed to the ground, would people have more work?”
“They’d have less. I know that, and they know that; and there is many an honest lad driven desperate by the certainty that whichever way he turns he cannot better himself; and there is dishonest men plenty to guide them to the devil, scoundrels that reckons to be the ‘people’s friends,’ and that knows nought about the people, and is as insincere as Lucifer. I’ve lived aboon forty year in the world, and I believe that ‘the people’ will never have any true friends but theirseln and them two or three good folk i’ different stations that is friends to all the world. Human natur’, taking it i’ th’ lump, is nought but selfishness. It is but excessive few, it is but just an exception here and there, now and then, sich as ye two young uns and me, that, being in a different sphere, can understand t’ one t’ other, and be friends wi’out slavishness o’ one hand or pride o’ t’ other. Them that reckons to be friends to a lower class than their own fro’ political motives is never to be trusted; they always try to make their inferiors tools. For my own part, I will neither be patronized nor misled for no man’s pleasure. I’ve had overtures made to me lately that I saw were treacherous, and I flung ‘em back i’ the faces o’ them that offered ‘em.”
“You won’t tell us what overtures?”
“I will not. It would do no good. It would mak no difference. Them they concerned can look after theirseln.”
“Ay, we’se look after werseln,” said another voice. Joe Scott had sauntered forth from the church to get a breath of fresh air, and there he stood.
“I’ll warrant ye, Joe,” observed William, smiling.
“And I’ll warrant my maister,” was the answer. — “Young ladies,” continued Joe, assuming a lordly air, “ye’d better go into th’ house.”
“I wonder what for?” inquired Shirley, to whom the overlooker’s somewhat pragmatical manners were familiar, and who was often at war with him; for Joe, holding supercilious theories about women in general, resented greatly, in his secret soul, the fact of his master and his master’s mill being, in a manner, under petticoat government, and had felt as wormwood and gall certain business visits of the heiress to the Hollow’s counting-house.
“Because there is nought agate that fits women to be consarned in.”
“Indeed! There is prayer and preaching agate in that church. Are we not concerned in that?”
“Ye have been present neither at the prayer nor preaching, ma’am, if I have observed aright. What I alluded to was politics. William Farren here was touching on that subject, if I’m not mista’en.”
“Well, what then? Politics are our habitual study, Joe. Do you know I see a newspaper every day, and two of a Sunday?”
“I should think you’ll read the marriages, probably, miss, and the murders, and the accidents, and sich like?”
“I read the leading articles, Joe, and the foreign intelligence, and I look over the market prices. In short, I read just what gentlemen read.”
Joe looked as if he thought this talk was like the chattering of a pie. He replied to it by a disdainful silence.
“Joe,” continued Miss Keeldar, “I never yet could ascertain properly whether you are a Whig or a Tory. Pray, which party has the honour of your alliance?”
“It is rayther difficult to explain where you are sure not to be understood,” was Joe’s haughty response; “but as to being a Tory, I’d as soon be an old woman, or a young one, which is a more flimsier article still. It is the Tories that carries on the war and ruins trade; and if I be of any party — though political parties is all nonsense — I’m of that which is most favourable to peace, and, by consequence, to the mercantile interests of this here land.”
“So am I, Joe,” replied Shirley, who had rather a pleasure in teasing the overlooker, by persisting in talking on subjects with which he opined she, as a woman, had no right to meddle — “partly, at least. I have rather a leaning to the agricultural interest, too; as good reason is, seeing that I don’t desire England to be under the feet of Fra
nce, and that if a share of my income comes from Hollow’s Mill, a larger share comes from the landed estate around it. It would not do to take any measures injurious to the farmers, Joe, I think?”
“The dews at this hour is unwholesome for females,” observed Joe.
“If you make that remark out of interest in me, I have merely to assure you that I am impervious to cold. I should not mind taking my turn to watch the mill one of these summer nights, armed with your musket, Joe.”
Joe Scott’s chin was always rather prominent. He poked it out, at this speech, some inches farther than usual.
“But — to go back to my sheep,” she proceeded — “clothier and millowner as I am, besides farmer, I cannot get out of my head a certain idea that we manufacturers and persons of business are sometimes a little — a very little — selfish and shortsighted in our views, and rather too regardless of human suffering, rather heartless in our pursuit of gain. Don’t you agree with me, Joe?”
“I cannot argue where I cannot be comprehended,” was again the answer.
“Man of mystery! Your master will argue with me sometimes, Joe. He is not so stiff as you are.”
“Maybe not. We’ve all our own ways.”
“Joe, do you seriously think all the wisdom in the world is lodged in male skulls?”
“I think that women are a kittle and a froward generation; and I’ve a great respect for the doctrines delivered in the second chapter of St. Paul’s first Epistle to Timothy.”
“What doctrines, Joe?”
“‘Let the woman learn in silence, with all subjection. I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve.’”
“What has that to do with the business?” interjected Shirley. “That smacks of rights of primogeniture. I’ll bring it up to Mr. Yorke the first time he inveighs against those rights.”
“And,” continued Joe Scott, “Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression.”
“More shame to Adam to sin with his eyes open!” cried Miss Keeldar. “To confess the honest truth, Joe, I never was easy in my mind concerning that chapter. It puzzles me.”
“It is very plain, miss. He that runs may read.”
“He may read it in his own fashion,” remarked Caroline, now joining in the dialogue for the first time. “You allow the right of private judgment, I suppose, Joe?”
“My certy, that I do! I allow and claim it for every line of the holy Book.”
“Women may exercise it as well as men?”
“Nay. Women is to take their husbands’ opinion, both in politics and religion. It’s wholesomest for them.”
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed both Shirley and Caroline.
“To be sure; no doubt on’t,” persisted the stubborn overlooker.
“Consider yourself groaned down, and cried shame over, for such a stupid observation,” said Miss Keeldar. “You might as well say men are to take the opinions of their priests without examination. Of what value would a religion so adopted be? It would be mere blind, besotted superstition.”
“And what is your reading, Miss Helstone, o’ these words o’ St. Paul’s?”
“Hem! I — I account for them in this way. He wrote that chapter for a particular congregation of Christians, under peculiar circumstances; and besides, I dare say, if I could read the original Greek, I should find that many of the words have been wrongly translated, perhaps misapprehended altogether. It would be possible, I doubt not, with a little ingenuity, to give the passage quite a contrary turn — to make it say, ‘Let the woman speak out whenever she sees fit to make an objection.’ ‘It is permitted to a woman to teach and to exercise authority as much as may be. Man, meantime, cannot do better than hold his peace;’ and so on.”
“That willn’t wash, miss.”
“I dare say it will. My notions are dyed in faster colours than yours, Joe. Mr. Scott, you are a thoroughly dogmatical person, and always were. I like William better than you.”
“Joe is well enough in his own house,” said Shirley. “I have seen him as quiet as a lamb at home. There is not a better nor a kinder husband in Briarfield. He does not dogmatize to his wife.”
“My wife is a hard-working, plain woman; time and trouble has ta’en all the conceit out of her. But that is not the case with you, young misses. And then you reckon to have so much knowledge; and i’ my thoughts it’s only superficial sort o’ vanities you’re acquainted with. I can tell — happen a year sin’ — one day Miss Caroline coming into our counting-house when I war packing up summat behind t’ great desk, and she didn’t see me, and she brought a slate wi’ a sum on it to t’ maister. It war only a bit of a sum in practice, that our Harry would have settled i’ two minutes. She couldn’t do it. Mr. Moore had to show her how. And when he did show her, she couldn’t understand him.”
“Nonsense, Joe!”
“Nay, it’s no nonsense. And Miss Shirley there reckons to hearken to t’ maister when he’s talking ower trade, so attentive like, as if she followed him word for word, and all war as clear as a lady’s looking-glass to her een; and all t’ while she’s peeping and peeping out o’ t’ window to see if t’ mare stands quiet; and then looking at a bit of a splash on her riding-skirt; and then glancing glegly round at wer counting-house cobwebs and dust, and thinking what mucky folk we are, and what a grand ride she’ll have just i’ now ower Nunnely Common. She hears no more o’ Mr. Moore’s talk nor if he spake Hebrew.”
“Joe, you are a real slanderer. I would give you your answer, only the people are coming out of church. We must leave you. Man of prejudice, good-bye. — William, good-bye. — Children, come up to Fieldhead tomorrow, and you shall choose what you like best out of Mrs. Gill’s storeroom.”
CHAPTER XIX.
A SUMMER NIGHT.
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The hour was now that of dusk. A clear air favoured the kindling of the stars.
“There will be just light enough to show me the way home,” said Miss Keeldar, as she prepared to take leave of Caroline at the rectory garden door.
“You must not go alone, Shirley; Fanny shall accompany you.”
“That she shall not. Of what need I be afraid in my own parish? I would walk from Fieldhead to the church any fine midsummer night, three hours later than this, for the mere pleasure of seeing the stars and the chance of meeting a fairy.”
“But just wait till the crowd is cleared away.”
“Agreed. There are the five Misses Armitage streaming by. Here comes Mrs. Sykes’s phaeton, Mr. Wynne’s close carriage, Mrs. Birtwhistle’s car. I don’t wish to go through the ceremony of bidding them all good-bye, so we will step into the garden and take shelter amongst the laburnums for an instant.”
The rectors, their curates, and their churchwardens now issued from the church porch. There was a great confabulation, shaking of hands, congratulation on speeches, recommendation to be careful of the night air, etc. By degrees the throng dispersed, the carriages drove off. Miss Keeldar was just emerging from her flowery refuge when Mr. Helstone entered the garden and met her.
“Oh, I want you!” he said. “I was afraid you were already gone. — Caroline, come here.”
Caroline came, expecting, as Shirley did, a lecture on not having been visible at church. Other subjects, however, occupied the rector’s mind.
“I shall not sleep at home tonight,” he continued. “I have just met with an old friend, and promised to accompany him. I shall return probably about noon tomorrow. Thomas, the clerk, is engaged, and I cannot get him to sleep in the house, as I usually do when I am absent for a night. Now — — “
“Now,” interrupted Shirley, “you want me as a gentleman — the first gentleman in Briarfield, in short — to supply your place, be master of the rectory and guardian of your niece and maids while you are away?”
“Exactly, captain. I thought the post would suit you. Will you favour Caroline so far as to be her gu
est for one night? Will you stay here instead of going back to Fieldhead?”
“And what will Mrs. Pryor do? she expects me home.”
“I will send her word. Come, make up your mind to stay. It grows late; the dew falls heavily. You and Caroline will enjoy each other’s society, I doubt not.”
“I promise you, then, to stay with Caroline,” replied Shirley. “As you say, we shall enjoy each other’s society. We will not be separated tonight. Now, rejoin your old friend, and fear nothing for us.”
“If there should chance to be any disturbance in the night, captain; if you should hear the picking of a lock, the cutting out of a pane of glass, a stealthy tread of steps about the house (and I need not fear to tell you, who bear a well-tempered, mettlesome heart under your girl’s ribbon sash, that such little incidents are very possible in the present time), what would you do?”
The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë Page 95