CHAPTER IX.
BRIARMAINS.
Messrs. Helstone and Sykes began to be extremely jocose andcongratulatory with Mr. Moore when he returned to them after dismissingthe deputation. He was so quiet, however, under their compliments uponhis firmness, etc., and wore a countenance so like a still, dark day,equally beamless and breezeless, that the rector, after glancingshrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his coat, andsaid to Sykes, whose senses were not acute enough to enable him todiscover unassisted where his presence and conversation were a nuisance,"Come, sir; your road and mine lie partly together. Had we not betterbear each other company? We'll bid Moore good-morning, and leave him tothe happy fancies he seems disposed to indulge."
"And where is Sugden?" demanded Moore, looking up.
"Ah, ha!" cried Helstone. "I've not been quite idle while you were busy.I've been helping you a little; I flatter myself not injudiciously. Ithought it better not to lose time; so, while you were parleying withthat down-looking gentleman--Farren I think his name is--I opened thisback window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr.Sykes's gig round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses--wooden legand all--through the aperture, and saw them mount the gig (always withour good friend Sykes's permission, of course). Sugden took thereins--he drives like Jehu--and in another quarter of an hourBarraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail."
"Very good; thank you," said Moore; "and good-morning, gentlemen," headded, and so politely conducted them to the door, and saw them clear ofhis premises.
He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day. He did not evenbandy a repartee with Joe Scott, who, for his part, said to his masteronly just what was absolutely necessary to the progress of business,but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequentlycame to poke the counting-house fire for him, and once, as he waslocking up for the day (the mill was then working short time, owing tothe slackness of trade), observed that it was a grand evening, and he"could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up th' Hollow. It would dohim good."
At this recommendation Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and afterdemanding of Joe what all this solicitude meant, and whether he took himfor a woman or a child, seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him bythe shoulders out of his presence. He called him back, however, ere hehad reached the yard-gate.
"Joe, do you know those Farrens? They are not well off, I suppose?"
"They cannot be well off, sir, when they've not had work as a threemonth. Ye'd see yoursel' 'at William's sorely changed--fair paired.They've selled most o' t' stuff out o' th' house."
"He was not a bad workman?"
"Ye never had a better, sir, sin' ye began trade."
"And decent people--the whole family?"
"Niver dacenter. Th' wife's a raight cant body, and as clean--ye mughteat your porridge off th' house floor. They're sorely comed down. I wishWilliam could get a job as gardener or summat i' that way; heunderstands gardening weel. He once lived wi' a Scotchman that tachedhim the mysteries o' that craft, as they say."
"Now, then, you can go, Joe. You need not stand there staring at me."
"Ye've no orders to give, sir?"
"None, but for you to take yourself off."
Which Joe did accordingly.
* * * * *
Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this had been a fineday, warm even in the morning and meridian sunshine, the air chilled atsunset, the ground crisped, and ere dusk a hoar frost was insidiouslystealing over growing grass and unfolding bud. It whitened the pavementin front of Briarmains (Mr. Yorke's residence), and made silent havocamong the tender plants in his garden, and on the mossy level of hislawn. As to that great tree, strong-trunked and broad-armed, whichguarded the gable nearest the road, it seemed to defy a spring-nightfrost to harm its still bare boughs; and so did the leafless grove ofwalnut-trees rising tall behind the house.
In the dusk of the moonless if starry night, lights from windows shonevividly. This was no dark or lonely scene, nor even a silent one.Briarmains stood near the highway. It was rather an old place, and hadbeen built ere that highway was cut, and when a lane winding up throughfields was the only path conducting to it. Briarfield lay scarce a mileoff; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen. Briar Chapel, alarge, new, raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose but a hundred yardsdistant; and as there was even now a prayer-meeting being held withinits walls, the illumination of its windows cast a bright reflection onthe road, while a hymn of a most extraordinary description, such as avery Quaker might feel himself moved by the Spirit to dance to, rousedcheerily all the echoes of the vicinage. The words were distinctlyaudible by snatches. Here is a quotation or two from different strains;for the singers passed jauntily from hymn to hymn and from tune to tune,with an ease and buoyancy all their own:--
"Oh! who can explain This struggle for life, This travail and pain, This trembling and strife? Plague, earthquake, and famine, And tumult and war, The wonderful coming Of Jesus declare!
"For every fight Is dreadful and loud: The warrior's delight Is slaughter and blood, His foes overturning, Till all shall expire: And this is with burning, And fuel, and fire!"
Here followed an interval of clamorous prayer, accompanied by fearfulgroans. A shout of "I've found liberty!" "Doad o' Bill's has fun'liberty!" rang from the chapel, and out all the assembly broke again.
"What a mercy is this! What a heaven of bliss! How unspeakably happy am I! Gathered into the fold, With Thy people enrolled, With Thy people to live and to die!
"Oh, the goodness of God In employing a clod His tribute of glory to raise; His standard to bear, And with triumph declare His unspeakable riches of grace!
"Oh, the fathomless love That has deigned to approve And prosper the work of my hands. With my pastoral crook I went over the brook, And behold I am spread into bands!
"Who, I ask in amaze, Hath begotten me these? And inquire from what quarter they came. My full heart it replies, They are born from the skies, And gives glory to God and the Lamb!"
The stanza which followed this, after another and longer interregnum ofshouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic cries, agonized groans, seemed tocap the climax of noise and zeal.
"Sleeping on the brink of sin, Tophet gaped to take us in; Mercy to our rescue flew, Broke the snare, and brought us through.
"Here, as in a lion's den, Undevoured we still remain, Pass secure the watery flood, Hanging on the arm of God.
"Here----"
(Terrible, most distracting to the ear, was the strained shout in whichthe last stanza was given.)
"Here we raise our voices higher, Shout in the refiner's fire, Clap our hands amidst the flame, Glory give to Jesus' name!"
The roof of the chapel did _not_ fly off, which speaks volumes in praiseof its solid slating.
But if Briar Chapel seemed alive, so also did Briarmains, thoughcertainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quieter phase of existencethan the temple. Some of its windows too were aglow; the lower casementsopened upon the lawn; curtains concealed the interior, and partlyobscured the ray of the candles which lit it, but they did not entirelymuffle the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged to enter thatfront door, and to penetrate to the domestic sanctum.
It is not the presence of company which makes Mr. Yorke's habitationlively, for there is none within it save his own family, and they areassembled in that farthest room to the right, the back parlour.
This is the usual sitting-room of an evening. Those windows would beseen by daylight to be of brilliantly-stained glass, purple and amberthe predominant hues, glittering round a gravely-tinted medallion in thecentre of each, representing the suave head of William Shakespeare, andthe serene one of John Milton. Some Canadian views hu
ng on thewalls--green forest and blue water scenery--and in the midst of themblazes a night-eruption of Vesuvius; very ardently it glows, contrastedwith the cool foam and azure of cataracts, and the dusky depths ofwoods.
The fire illuminating this room, reader, is such as, if you be asouthern, you do not often see burning on the hearth of a privateapartment. It is a clear, hot coal fire, heaped high in the amplechimney. Mr. Yorke _will_ have such fires even in warm summer weather.He sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at hiselbow supporting a candle; but he is not reading--he is watching hischildren. Opposite to him sits his lady--a personage whom I mightdescribe minutely, but I feel no vocation to the task. I see her,though, very plainly before me--a large woman of the gravest aspect,care on her front and on her shoulders, but not overwhelming, inevitablecare, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden peopleever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, well-a-day! Mrs.Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she was, morning, noon, and,night; and hard things she thought if any unhappy wight--especially ofthe female sex--who dared in her presence to show the light of a gayheart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was tobe profane, to be cheerful was to be frivolous. She drew nodistinctions. Yet she was a very good wife, a very careful mother,looked after her children unceasingly, was sincerely attached to herhusband; only the worst of it was, if she could have had her will, shewould not have permitted him to have any friend in the world besideherself. All his relations were insupportable to her, and she kept themat arm's length.
Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well, yet he was naturally a social,hospitable man, an advocate for family unity; and in his youth, as hasbeen said, he liked none but lively, cheerful women. Why he chose her,how they contrived to suit each other, is a problem puzzling enough, butwhich might soon be solved if one had time to go into the analysis ofthe case. Suffice it here to say that Yorke had a shadowy side as wellas a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy side foundsympathy and affinity in the whole of his wife's uniformly overcastnature. For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weakor a trite thing; took stern, democratic views of society, and rathercynical ones of human nature; considered herself perfect and safe, andthe rest of the world all wrong. Her main fault was a brooding, eternal,immitigable suspicion of all men, things, creeds, and parties; thissuspicion was a mist before her eyes, a false guide in her path,wherever she looked, wherever she turned.
It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were not likely toturn out quite ordinary, commonplace beings; and they were not. You seesix of them, reader. The youngest is a baby on the mother's knee. It isall her own yet, and that one she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect,condemn; it derives its sustenance from her, it hangs on her, it clingsto her, it loves her above everything else in the world. She is sure ofthat, because, as it lives by her, it cannot be otherwise, therefore sheloves it.
The two next are girls, Rose and Jessy; they are both now at theirfather's knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged todo so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father--themost like him of the whole group--but it is a granite head copied inivory; all is softened in colour and line. Yorke himself has a harshface--his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it issimple, childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom: as to the grayeyes, they are otherwise than childlike; a serious soul lights them--ayoung soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neitherfather nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of theessence of each, it will one day be better than either--stronger, muchpurer, more aspiring. Rose is a still, sometimes a stubborn, girl now.Her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself--a womanof dark and dreary duties; and Rose has a mind full-set, thick-sown withthe germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony to her often tohave these ideas trampled on and repressed. She has never rebelled yet;but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once forall. Rose loves her father: her father does not rule her with a rod ofiron; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live, so brightare the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glanceand gleam in her language. This idea makes him often sadly tender toher.
He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so gay andchattering, arch, original even now; passionate when provoked, but mostaffectionate if caressed; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting, yetgenerous; fearless--of her mother, for instance, whose irrationally hardand strict rule she has often defied--yet reliant on any who will helpher. Jessy, with her little piquant face, engaging prattle, and winningways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is. Itis odd that the doll should resemble her mother feature by feature, asRose resembles her father, and yet the physiognomy--how different!
Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were now held before you, and if thereinwere shown you your two daughters as they will be twenty years from thisnight, what would you think? The magic mirror is here: you shall learntheir destinies--and first that of your little life, Jessy.
Do you know this place? No, you never saw it; but you recognize thenature of these trees, this foliage--the cypress, the willow, the yew.Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dimgarlands of everlasting flowers. Here is the place--green sod and a graymarble headstone. Jessy sleeps below. She lived through an April day;much loved was she, much loving. She often, in her brief life, shedtears, she had frequent sorrows; she smiled between, gladdening whateversaw her. Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, forRose had been her stay and defence through many trials. The dying andthe watching English girls were at that hour alone in a foreigncountry, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a grave.
Now, behold Rose two years later. The crosses and garlands lookedstrange, but the hills and woods of this landscape look still stranger.This, indeed, is far from England; remote must be the shores which wearthat wild, luxuriant aspect. This is some virgin solitude. Unknown birdsflutter round the skirts of that forest; no European river this, onwhose banks Rose sits thinking. The little quiet Yorkshire girl is alonely emigrant in some region of the southern hemisphere. Will she evercome back?
The three eldest of the family are all boys--Matthew, Mark, and Martin.They are seated together in that corner, engaged in some game. Observetheir three heads: much alike at a first glance; at a second, different;at a third, contrasted. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are thewhole trio; small English features they all possess; all own a blendedresemblance to sire and mother; and yet a distinctive physiognomy, markof a separate character, belongs to each.
I shall not say much about Matthew, the first-born of the house, thoughit is impossible to avoid gazing at him long, and conjecturing whatqualities that visage hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking boy:that jet-black hair, white brow, high-coloured cheek, those quick, darkeyes, are good points in their way. How is it that, look as long as youwill, there is but one object in the room, and that the most sinister,to which Matthew's face seems to bear an affinity, and of which, everand anon, it reminds you strangely--the eruption of Vesuvius? Flame andshadow seem the component parts of that lad's soul--no daylight in it,and no sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shone there. He has anEnglish frame, but, apparently, not an English mind--you would say, anItalian stiletto in a sheath of British workmanship. He is crossed inthe game--look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does he say? Ina low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother." Andthis is ever the tone adopted by both parents. Theoretically, they decrypartiality--no rights of primogeniture are to be allowed in that house;but Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be opposed; they avertprovocation from him as assiduously as they would avert fire from abarrel of gunpowder. "Concede, conciliate," is their motto wherever heis concerned. The republicans are fast making a tyrant of their ownflesh and blood. This the younger scions know and feel, and at heartthey all rebel against the injustice.
They cannot read their parents'motives; they only see the difference of treatment. The dragon's teethare already sown amongst Mr. Yorke's young olive-branches; discord willone day be the harvest.
Mark is a bonny-looking boy, the most regular-featured of the family. Heis exceedingly calm; his smile is shrewd; he can say the driest, mostcutting things in the quietest of tones. Despite his tranquillity, asomewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds you that the smoothestwaters are not always the safest. Besides, he is too still, unmoved,phlegmatic, to be happy. Life will never have much joy in it for Mark.By the time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder why people ever laugh,and think all fools who seem merry. Poetry will not exist for Mark,either in literature or in life; its best effusions will sound to himmere rant and jargon. Enthusiasm will be his aversion and contempt. Markwill have no youth; while he looks juvenile and blooming, he will bealready middle-aged in mind. His body is now fourteen years of age, buthis soul is already thirty.
Martin, the youngest of the three, owns another nature. Life may, or maynot, be brief for him, but it will certainly be brilliant. He will passthrough all its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy them, thenoutlive them. That boy is not handsome--not so handsome as either of hisbrothers. He is plain; there is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and hewill wear it till he is near twenty, then he will put it off. About thatperiod he will make himself handsome. He will wear uncouth manners tillthat age, perhaps homely garments; but the chrysalis will retain thepower of transfiguring itself into the butterfly, and suchtransfiguration will, in due season, take place. For a space he will bevain, probably a downright puppy, eager for pleasure and desirous ofadmiration, athirst, too, for knowledge. He will want all that the worldcan give him, both of enjoyment and lore; he will, perhaps, take deepdraughts at each fount. That thirst satisfied, what next? I know not.Martin might be a remarkable man. Whether he will or not, the seer ispowerless to predict: on that subject there has been no open vision.
Take Mr. Yorke's family in the aggregate: there is as much mental powerin those six young heads, as much originality, as much activity andvigour of brain, as--divided amongst half a dozen commonplacebroods--would give to each rather more than an average amount of senseand capacity. Mr. Yorke knows this, and is proud of his race. Yorkshirehas such families here and there amongst her hills and wolds--peculiar,racy, vigorous; of good blood and strong brain; turbulent somewhat inthe pride of their strength, and intractable in the force of theirnative powers; wanting polish, wanting consideration, wanting docility,but sound, spirited, and true-bred as the eagle on the cliff or thesteed in the steppe.
A low tap is heard at the parlour door; the boys have been making such anoise over their game, and little Jessy, besides, has been singing sosweet a Scotch song to her father--who delights in Scotch and Italiansongs, and has taught his musical little daughter some of the best--thatthe ring at the outer door was not observed.
"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously constrained andsolemnized voice of hers, which ever modulates itself to a funerealdreariness of tone, though the subject it is exercised upon be but togive orders for the making of a pudding in the kitchen, to bid the boyshang up their caps in the hall, or to call the girls to theirsewing--"come in!" And in came Robert Moore.
Moore's habitual gravity, as well as his abstemiousness (for the case ofspirit decanters is never ordered up when he pays an evening visit), hasso far recommended him to Mrs. Yorke that she has not yet made him thesubject of private animadversions with her husband; she has not yetfound out that he is hampered by a secret intrigue which prevents himfrom marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing--discoverieswhich she made at an early date after marriage concerning most of herhusband's bachelor friends, and excluded them from her boardaccordingly; which part of her conduct, indeed, might be said to haveits just and sensible as well as its harsh side.
"Well, is it you?" she says to Mr. Moore, as he comes up to her andgives his hand. "What are you roving about at this time of night for?You should be at home."
"Can a single man be said to have a home, madam?" he asks.
"Pooh!" says Mrs. Yorke, who despises conventional smoothness quite asmuch as her husband does, and practises it as little, and whose plainspeaking on all occasions is carried to a point calculated, sometimes,to awaken admiration, but oftener alarm--"pooh! you need not talknonsense to me; a single man can have a home if he likes. Pray, does notyour sister make a home for you?"
"Not she," joined in Mr. Yorke. "Hortense is an honest lass. But when Iwas Robert's age I had five or six sisters, all as decent and proper asshe is; but you see, Hesther, for all that it did not hinder me fromlooking out for a wife."
"And sorely he has repented marrying me," added Mrs. Yorke, who likedoccasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even though itshould be at her own expense. "He has repented it in sackcloth andashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see hispunishment" (here she pointed to her children). "Who would burdenthemselves with such a set of great, rough lads as those, if they couldhelp it? It is not only bringing them into the world, though that is badenough, but they are all to feed, to clothe, to rear, to settle in life.Young sir, when you feel tempted to marry, think of our four sons andtwo daughters, and look twice before you leap."
"I am not tempted now, at any rate. I think these are not times formarrying or giving in marriage."
A lugubrious sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain Mrs. Yorke'sapprobation. She nodded and groaned acquiescence; but in a minute shesaid, "I make little account of the wisdom of a Solomon of your age; itwill be upset by the first fancy that crosses you. Meantime, sit down,sir. You can talk, I suppose, as well sitting as standing?"
This was her way of inviting her guest to take a chair. He had no soonerobeyed her than little Jessy jumped from her father's knee and ran intoMr. Moore's arms, which were very promptly held out to receive her.
"You talk of marrying him," said she to her mother, quite indignantly,as she was lifted lightly to his knee, "and he is married now, or asgood. He promised that I should be his wife last summer, the first timehe saw me in my new white frock and blue sash. Didn't he, father?"(These children were not accustomed to say papa and mamma; their motherwould allow no such "namby-pamby.")
"Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I'll bear witness. But make him sayit over again now, Jessy. Such as he are only false loons."
"He is not false. He is too bonny to be false," said Jessy, looking upto her tall sweetheart with the fullest confidence in his faith.
"Bonny!" cried Mr. Yorke. "That's the reason that he should be, andproof that he is, a scoundrel."
"But he looks too sorrowful to be false," here interposed a quiet voicefrom behind the father's chair. "If he was always laughing, I shouldthink he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs."
"Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all, Rose," remarked Mr.Yorke.
"He's not sentimental," said Rose.
Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling at the sametime.
"How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose?"
"Because I heard a lady say you were not."
"Voila, qui devient interessant!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke, hitching hischair nearer the fire. "A lady! That has quite a romantic twang. We mustguess who it is.--Rosy, whisper the name low to your father. Don't let_him_ hear."
"Rose, don't be too forward to talk," here interrupted Mrs. Yorke, inher usual kill-joy fashion, "nor Jessy either. It becomes all children,especially girls, to be silent in the presence of their elders."
"Why have we tongues, then?" asked Jessy pertly; while Rose only lookedat her mother with an expression that seemed to say she should take thatmaxim in and think it over at her leisure. After two minutes' gravedeliberation, she asked, "And why especially girls, mother?"
"Firstly, because I say so; and secondly, because discretion and reserveare a girl's best wisdom."
"My dear madam," observed Moore, "what you
say is excellent--it remindsme, indeed, of my dear sister's observations; but really it is notapplicable to these little ones. Let Rose and Jessy talk to me freely,or my chief pleasure in coming here is gone. I like their prattle; itdoes me good."
"Does it not?" asked Jessy. "More good than if the rough lads came roundyou.--You call them rough, mother, yourself."
"Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more good. I have rough lads enoughabout me all day long, poulet."
"There are plenty of people," continued she, "who take notice of theboys. All my uncles and aunts seem to think their nephews better thantheir nieces, and when gentlemen come here to dine, it is alwaysMatthew, and Mark, and Martin that are talked to, and never Rose and me.Mr. Moore is _our_ friend, and we'll keep him.--But mind, Rose, he's notso much your friend as he is mine. He is my _particular acquaintance_;remember that!" And she held up her small hand with an admonitorygesture.
Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished by that small hand. Her willdaily bent itself to that of the impetuous little Jessy. She was guided,overruled by Jessy in a thousand things. On all occasions of show andpleasure Jessy took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background;whereas, when the disagreeables of life--its work and privations--werein question, Rose instinctively took upon her, in addition to her ownshare, what she could of her sister's. Jessy had already settled it inher mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married; Rose, shedecided, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after her children,keep her house. This state of things is not uncommon between twosisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this case, ifthere _was_ a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage:her face was more regular-featured than that of the piquant littleJessy. Jessy, however, was destined to possess, along with sprightlyintelligence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, the powerto charm when, where, and whom she would. Rose was to have a fine,generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly cultivated, a heart as trueas steel, but the manner to attract was not to be hers.
"Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I wassentimental," urged Mr. Moore.
Rose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have held him a while indoubt. She answered briefly, "I can't. I don't know her name."
"Describe her to me. What was she like? Where did you see her?"
"When Jessy and I went to spend the day at Whinbury with Kate and SusanPearson, who were just come home from school, there was a party at Mrs.Pearson's, and some grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of thedrawing-room talking about you."
"Did you know none of them?"
"Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and Mary Sykes."
"Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?"
"Some of them were. They called you a misanthrope. I remember the word.I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home. It means aman-hater."
"What besides?"
"Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy."
"Better!" cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. "Oh, excellent! Hannah! that's theone with the red hair--a fine girl, but half-witted."
"She has wit enough for me, it appears," said Moore. "A solemn puppy,indeed! Well, Rose, go on."
"Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of affectationabout you, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked to herlike some sort of a sentimental noodle."
Again Mr. Yorke laughed. Mrs. Yorke even joined in this time. "You seein what esteem you are held behind your back," said she; "yet I believe_that_ Miss Pearson would like to catch you. She set her cap at you whenyou first came into the country, old as she is."
"And who contradicted her, Rosy?" inquired Moore.
"A lady whom I don't know, because she never visits here, though I seeher every Sunday at church. She sits in the pew near the pulpit. Igenerally look at her, instead of looking at my prayer-book, for she islike a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in herhand--at least she has eyes like it, and a nose too, a straight nose,that makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear."
"And you don't know her!" exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of exceedingsurprise. "That's so like Rose. Mr. Moore, I often wonder in what sortof a world my sister lives. I am sure she does not live all her time inthis. One is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant of somelittle matter which everybody else knows. To think of her going solemnlyto church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particularperson, and never so much as asking that person's name. She meansCaroline Helstone, the rector's niece. I remember all about it. MissHelstone was quite angry with Anne Pearson. She said, 'Robert Moore isneither affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly, orrather not one of you here knows anything about it.' Now, shall I tellyou what she is like? I can tell what people are like, and how they aredressed, better than Rose can."
"Let us hear."
"She is nice; she is fair; she has a pretty white slender throat; shehas long curls, not stiff ones--they hang loose and soft, their colouris brown but not dark; she speaks quietly, with a clear tone; she nevermakes a bustle in moving; she often wears a gray silk dress; she is neatall over--her gowns, and her shoes, and her gloves always fit her. Sheis what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean to belike her. Shall I suit you if I am? Will you really marry me?"
Moore stroked Jessy's hair. For a minute he seemed as if he would drawher nearer to him, but instead he put her a little farther off.
"Oh! you won't have me? You push me away."
"Why, Jessy, you care nothing about me. You never come to see me now atthe Hollow."
"Because you don't ask me."
Hereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitation to pay him avisit next day, promising that, as he was going to Stilbro' in themorning, he would buy them each a present, of what nature he would notthen declare, but they must come and see. Jessy was about to reply, whenone of the boys unexpectedly broke in,--
"I know that Miss Helstone you have all been palavering about. She's anugly girl. I hate her. I hate all womenites. I wonder what they weremade for."
"Martin!" said his father, for Martin it was. The lad only answered byturning his cynical young face, half-arch, half-truculent, towards thepaternal chair. "Martin, my lad, thou'rt a swaggering whelp now; thouwilt some day be an outrageous puppy. But stick to those sentiments ofthine. See, I'll write down the words now i' my pocket-book." (Thesenior took out a morocco-covered book, and deliberately wrote therein.)"Ten years hence, Martin, if thou and I be both alive at that day, I'llremind thee of that speech."
"I'll say the same then. I mean always to hate women. They're suchdolls; they do nothing but dress themselves finely, and go swimmingabout to be admired. I'll never marry. I'll be a bachelor."
"Stick to it! stick to it!--Hesther" (addressing his wife), "I was likehim when I was his age--a regular misogamist; and, behold! by the time Iwas three-and-twenty--being then a tourist in France and Italy, and theLord knows where--I curled my hair every night before I went to bed, andwore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my nose if it had beenthe fashion, and all that I might make myself pleasing and charming tothe ladies. Martin will do the like."
"Will I? Never! I've more sense. What a guy you were, father! As todressing, I make this vow: I'll never dress more finely than as you seeme at present.--Mr. Moore, I'm clad in blue cloth from top to toe, andthey laugh at me, and call me sailor at the grammar-school. I laughlouder at them, and say they are all magpies and parrots, with theircoats one colour, and their waistcoats another, and their trousers athird. I'll always wear blue cloth, and nothing but blue cloth. It isbeneath a human being's dignity to dress himself in parti-colouredgarments."
"Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor's shop will have choice of coloursvaried enough for thy exacting taste; no perfumer's stores essencesexquisite enough for thy fastidious senses."
Martin looked disdain, but vouchsafed no further reply. Meantime Mark,who for some minutes had been rummaging amongst a pile of boo
ks on aside-table, took the word. He spoke in a peculiarly slow, quiet voice,and with an expression of still irony in his face not easy to describe.
"Mr. Moore," said he, "you think perhaps it was a compliment on MissCaroline Helstone's part to say you were not sentimental. I thought youappeared confused when my sisters told you the words, as if you feltflattered. You turned red, just like a certain vain little lad at ourschool, who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a rise in theclass. For your benefit, Mr. Moore, I've been looking up the word'sentimental' in the dictionary, and I find it to mean 'tinctured withsentiment.' On examining further, 'sentiment' is explained to bethought, idea, notion. A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts,ideas, notions; an unsentimental man is one destitute of thought, idea,or notion."
And Mark stopped. He did not smile, he did not look round foradmiration. He had said his say, and was silent.
"Ma foi! mon ami," observed Mr. Moore to Yorke, "ce sont vraiment desenfants terribles, que les votres!"
Rose, who had been listening attentively to Mark's speech, replied tohim, "There are different kinds of thoughts, ideas, and notions," saidshe, "good and bad. Sentimental must refer to the bad, or Miss Helstonemust have taken it in that sense, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore; shewas defending him."
"That's my kind little advocate!" said Moore, taking Rose's hand.
"She was defending him," repeated Rose, "as I should have done had Ibeen in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully."
"Ladies always do speak spitefully," observed Martin. "It is the natureof womenites to be spiteful."
Matthew now, for the first time, opened his lips. "What a fool Martinis, to be always gabbling about what he does not understand!"
"It is my privilege, as a freeman, to gabble on whatever subject Ilike," responded Martin.
"You use it, or rather abuse it, to such an extent," rejoined the elderbrother, "that you prove you ought to have been a slave."
"A slave! a slave! That to a Yorke, and from a Yorke! This fellow," headded, standing up at the table, and pointing across it toMatthew--"this fellow forgets, what every cottier in Briarfield knows,that all born of our house have that arched instep under which water canflow--proof that there has not been a slave of the blood for threehundred years."
"Mountebank!" said Matthew.
"Lads, be silent!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke.--"Martin, you are amischief-maker. There would have been no disturbance but for you."
"Indeed! Is that correct? Did I begin, or did Matthew? Had I spoken tohim when he accused me of gabbling like a fool?"
"A presumptuous fool!" repeated Matthew.
Here Mrs. Yorke commenced rocking herself--rather a portentous movementwith her, as it was occasionally followed, especially when Matthew wasworsted in a conflict, by a fit of hysterics.
"I don't see why I should bear insolence from Matthew Yorke, or whatright he has to use bad language to me," observed Martin.
"He has no right, my lad; but forgive your brother untilseventy-and-seven times," said Mr. Yorke soothingly.
"Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse!" murmured Martinas he turned to leave the room.
"Where art thou going, my son?" asked the father.
"Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult, if in this house I canfind any such place."
Matthew laughed very insolently. Martin threw a strange look at him, andtrembled through all his slight lad's frame; but he restrained himself.
"I suppose there is no objection to my withdrawing?" he inquired.
"No. Go, my lad; but remember not to bear malice."
Martin went, and Matthew sent another insolent laugh after him. Rose,lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder, against which, for amoment, it had been resting, said, as she directed a steady gaze toMatthew, "Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would rather beMartin than you. I dislike your nature."
Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting, or at least escaping, a scene--whicha sob from Mrs. Yorke warned him was likely to come on--rose, andputting Jessy off his knee, he kissed her and Rose, reminding them, atthe same time, to be sure and come to the Hollow in good time to-morrowafternoon; then, having taken leave of his hostess, he said to Mr.Yorke, "May I speak a word with you?" and was followed by him from theroom. Their brief conference took place in the hall.
"Have you employment for a good workman?" asked Moore.
"A nonsense question in these times, when you know that every master hasmany good workmen to whom he cannot give full employment."
"You must oblige me by taking on this man, if possible."
"My lad, I can take on no more hands to oblige all England."
"It does not signify; I must find him a place somewhere."
"Who is he?"
"William Farren."
"I know William. A right-down honest man is William."
"He has been out of work three months. He has a large family. We aresure they cannot live without wages. He was one of the deputation ofcloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain and threaten.William did not threaten. He only asked me to give them rather moretime--to make my changes more slowly. You know I cannot do that:straitened on all sides as I am, I have nothing for it but to push on. Ithought it would be idle to palaver long with them. I sent them away,after arresting a rascal amongst them, whom I hope to transport--afellow who preaches at the chapel yonder sometimes."
"Not Moses Barraclough?"
"Yes."
"Ah! you've arrested him? Good! Then out of a scoundrel you're going tomake a martyr. You've done a wise thing."
"I've done a right thing. Well, the short and the long of it is, I'mdetermined to get Farren a place, and I reckon on you to give him one."
"This is cool, however!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke. "What right have you toreckon on me to provide for your dismissed workmen? What do I know aboutyour Farrens and your Williams? I've heard he's an honest man, but am Ito support all the honest men in Yorkshire? You may say that would be nogreat charge to undertake; but great or little, I'll none of it."
"Come, Mr. Yorke, what can you find for him to do?"
"_I_ find! You'll make me use language I'm not accustomed to use. I wishyou would go home. Here is the door; set off."
Moore sat down on one of the hall chairs.
"You can't give him work in your mill--good; but you have land. Find himsome occupation on your land, Mr. Yorke."
"Bob, I thought you cared nothing about our _lourdauds de paysans_. Idon't understand this change."
"I do. The fellow spoke to me nothing but truth and sense. I answeredhim just as roughly as I did the rest, who jabbered mere gibberish. Icouldn't make distinctions there and then. His appearance told what hehad gone through lately clearer than his words; but where is the use ofexplaining? Let him have work."
"Let him have it yourself. If you are so very much in earnest, strain apoint."
"If there was a point left in my affairs to strain, I would strain ittill it cracked again; but I received letters this morning which showedme pretty clearly where I stand, and it is not far off the end of theplank. My foreign market, at any rate, is gorged. If there is nochange--if there dawns no prospect of peace--if the Orders in Councilare not, at least, suspended, so as to open our way in the West--I donot know where I am to turn. I see no more light than if I were sealedin a rock, so that for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood wouldbe to do a dishonest thing."
"Come, let us take a turn on the front. It is a starlight night," saidMr. Yorke.
They passed out, closing the front door after them, and side by sidepaced the frost-white pavement to and fro.
"Settle about Farren at once," urged Mr. Moore. "You have largefruit-gardens at Yorke Mills. He is a good gardener. Give him workthere."
"Well, so be it. I'll send for him to-morrow, and we'll see. And now, mylad, you're concerned about the condition of your affairs?"
"Yes, a second failure--which I may delay, but which, at this moment,
Isee no way finally to avert--would blight the name of Moore completely;and you are aware I had fine intentions of paying off every debt andre-establishing the old firm on its former basis."
"You want capital--that's all you want."
"Yes; but you might as well say that breath is all a dead man wants tolive."
"I know--I know capital is not to be had for the asking; and if you werea married man, and had a family, like me, I should think your casepretty nigh desperate; but the young and unencumbered have chancespeculiar to themselves. I hear gossip now and then about your being onthe eve of marriage with this miss and that; but I suppose it is none ofit true?"
"You may well suppose that. I think I am not in a position to bedreaming of marriage. Marriage! I cannot bear the word; it sounds sosilly and utopian. I have settled it decidedly that marriage and loveare superfluities, intended only for the rich, who live at ease, andhave no need to take thought for the morrow; or desperations--the lastand reckless joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out ofthe slough of their utter poverty."
"I should not think so if I were circumstanced as you are. I shouldthink I could very likely get a wife with a few thousands, who wouldsuit both me and my affairs."
"I wonder where?"
"Would you try if you had a chance?"
"I don't know. It depends on--in short, it depends on many things."
"Would you take an old woman?"
"I'd rather break stones on the road."
"So would I. Would you take an ugly one?"
"Bah! I hate ugliness and delight in beauty. My eyes and heart, Yorke,take pleasure in a sweet, young, fair face, as they are repelled by agrim, rugged, meagre one. Soft delicate lines and hues please, harshones prejudice me. I won't have an ugly wife."
"Not if she were rich?"
"Not if she were dressed in gems. I could not love--I could not fancy--Icould not endure her. My taste must have satisfaction, or disgust wouldbreak out in despotism, or worse--freeze to utter iciness."
"What! Bob, if you married an honest, good-natured, and wealthy lass,though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you put up with the highcheek-bones, the rather wide mouth, and reddish hair?"
"I'll never try, I tell you. Grace at least I _will_ have, and youth andsymmetry--yes, and what I call beauty."
"And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you can neither clothe norfeed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother; and then bankruptcy,discredit--a life-long struggle."
"Let me alone, Yorke."
"If you are romantic, Robert, and especially if you are already in love,it is of no use talking."
"I am not romantic. I am stripped of romance as bare as the whitetenters in that field are of cloth."
"Always use such figures of speech, lad; I can understand them. Andthere is no love affair to disturb your judgment?"
"I thought I had said enough on that subject before. Love for me?Stuff!"
"Well, then, if you are sound both in heart and head, there is noreason why you should not profit by a good chance if it offers;therefore, wait and see."
"You are quite oracular, Yorke."
"I think I am a bit i' that line. I promise ye naught and I advise yenaught; but I bid ye keep your heart up, and be guided bycircumstances."
"My namesake the physician's almanac could not speak more guardedly."
"In the meantime, I care naught about ye, Robert Moore: ye are nothingakin to me or mine, and whether ye lose or find a fortune it maks nodifference to me. Go home, now. It has stricken ten. Miss Hortense willbe wondering where ye are."
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