 CHAPTER VII PART III T. was a long time in progress. All the guests gabbled as their hostess had expected they would. Mr. Hellstone, being in excellent spirits, when indeed was he ever otherwise in society, attractive female society. It being only with the one lady of his own family that he maintained a grim tass eternity, kept up a brilliant flow of easy prattle with his right hand and left hand neighbors, and even with his vis-a-vis Miss Mary, though as Mary was the most sensible, the least coquettish of the three, to her the elderly widower was the least attractive. At heart he could not abide sense in women. He liked to see them as silly, as light-headed, as vain, as open to ridicule as possible, because they were then in reality what he held them to be, and wished them to be, inferior, toys to play with, to amuse a vacant hour, and to be thrown away. Hannah was his favorite. Harriet, though beautiful, egotistical, and self-satisfied, was not quite weak enough for him. She had some genuine self-respect amidst muchfall's pride, and if she did not talk like an oracle, neither would she babble like one crazy. She would not permit herself to be treated quite as a doll, a child, a plaything. She expected to be bent to like a queen. Hannah, on the contrary, demanded no respect, only flattery. If her admirers only told her that she was an angel, she would let them treat her like an idiot. So very credulous and frivolous was she. So very silly did she become when besieged with attention, flattered and admired to the proper degree, that there were moments when Hellstone actually felt tempted to commit matrimony a second time, and to try the experiment of taking her for his second help-meat. But fortunately the salutary recollection of the ennuis of his first marriage, the impression still left on him of the weight of the millstone he had once worn round his neck. The fixity of his feelings, respecting the insufferable evils of conjugal existence, operated as a check to his tenderness, suppressed the sigh heaving his old iron lungs, and restrained him from whispering to Hannah, proposals it would have been high fun and great satisfaction to her to hear. It is probable she would have married him if he had asked her. Her parents would have quite approved the match. To them, his fifty-five years, his bend leather heart, could have presented no obstacles. And as he was a rector, held an excellent living, occupied a good house, and was supposed even to have private property, though in that the world was mistaken. Every penny of the five thousand pounds inherited by him from his father had been devoted to the building and endowing of a new church at his native village in Lancashire. For he could show a lordly munificence when he pleased, and if the end was to his liking never hesitated about making a grand sacrifice to attain it. Her parents, I say, would have delivered Hannah over to his loving-kindness and his tender mercies without one scruple. And the second Mrs. Halstown, inverting the natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered through the honeymoon a bright-admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days assorted trampled worm. Little Mr. Sweeding, seated between Mrs. Sykes and Mrs. Mary, both of whom were very kind to him, and having a dish of tarts before him, and marmalade and crumpet upon his plate, looked and felt more content than any monarch. He was fond of all the Mrs. Sykes. They were all fond of him. He thought the magnificent girls quite proper to mate with one of his inches. If he had a cause of regret at this blissful moment, it was that Miss Dora happened to be absent, Dora being the one whom he secretly hoped one day to call Mrs. David Sweeding, with whom he dreamt of taking stately walks, leading her like an empress through the village of Nunnally. And an empress she would have been, if Sykes could make an empress. She was vast, ponderous. Seen from behind, she had the air of a very stout lady of forty. But with all she possessed a good face, and no unkindly character. The meal at last drew to a close. It would have been over long ago if Mr. Don had not persisted in sitting with his cup half full of cold tea before him, long after the rest had finished, and after he himself had discussed such allowance of vions as he felt competent to swallow, long indeed, after signs of impatience, had been manifested all round the board, till chairs were pushed back, till the talk flagged, till silence fell. Veinly did Carolyn inquire repeatedly if he would have another cup, if he would take a little hot tea, as that must be cold, etc. He would neither drink it nor leave it. He seemed to think that this isolated position of his gave him somehow a certain importance, that it was dignified and stately to be the last, that it was grand to keep all the others waiting. So long did he linger, that the very urn died, it ceased to hiss. At length, however, the old rector himself, who had hitherto been too pleasantly engaged with Hannah to care for the delay, got impatient. For whom are we waiting, he asked? For me, I believe, returned Don complacently, appearing to think it much to his credit, that a party should thus be kept dependent on his movements. T'ah! cried Hellstone. Then, standing up, let us return thanks, said he, which he did forthwith, and all quitted the table. Don, nothing abashed, still sat ten minutes quite alone, whereupon Mr. Hellstone rang the bell for the things to be removed. The curate at length saw himself forced to empty his cup, and to relinquish the role which, he thought, had given him such a felicitous distinction, drawn upon him such flattering general notice. And now, in the general course of events, Carolyn, knowing how it would be, had opened the piano and produced music books in readiness. Music was asked for. This was Mr. Sweeting's chance for showing off. He was eager to commence. He undertook, therefore, the arduous task of persuading the young ladies to favour the company with an air, a song. Conamore, he went through the whole business of begging, praying, resisting excuses, explaining away difficulties, and at last succeeded in persuading Miss Harriet to allow herself to be led to the instrument. Then out came the pieces of his flute. He always carried them in his pocket, as unfailingly as he carried his handkerchief. They were screwed and arranged. Malone and Donne, meanwhile, herding together and sneering at him, which the little man, glancing over his shoulder, saw, but did not heed at all. He was persuaded their sarcasm all arose from envy. They could not accompany the ladies as he could. He was about to enjoy a triumph over them. The triumph began. Malone, much chagrined at hearing him pipe up in most superior style, determined to earn distinction, too, if possible, and all at once assuming the character of a swan, which character he had endeavored to enact once or twice before, but in which he had not hitherto met with the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved. Approached to Sofa on which Miss Hellstone was seated, and depositing his great Irish frame near her, tried his hand, or rather his tongue, to find speech or two, accompanied by grins, the most extraordinary and incomprehensible. In the course of his efforts to render himself agreeable, he can try to possess himself of the two long Sofa cushions and a square one, with which, after rolling them about for some time with strange gestures, he managed to erect a sort of barrier between himself and the object of his attentions. Carolyn, quite willing that they should be sundered, soon devised an excuse for stepping over to the opposite side of the room, and taking up a position beside Mrs. Sykes, of which good lady she entreated some instruction in a new stitch in ornamental knitting, a favour readily granted, and thus Peter Augustus was thrown out. Very sullenly did his countenance lower, when he saw himself abandon, left entirely to his own resources on a large sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his hands. The fact was he felt disposed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss Hallstone, because he thought, in common with others, that her uncle possessed money, and concluded that, since he had no children, he would probably leave it to his niece. Gerard Moore was better instructed on this point. He had seen the neat church that owed its origin to the rector's zeal and cash, and more than once, in his inmost soul, had cursed an expensive caprice which crossed his wishes. The evening seemed long to one person in that room. Carolyn at intervals dropped her knitting on her lap, and gave herself up to a sort of brain lethargy, closing her eyes and depressing her head, caused by what seemed to her the unmeaning hum around her, the inharmonious tasteless rattle of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes of the flute, the laughter and mirth of her uncle, and Hannah and Mary. She could not tell whence originating, for she heard nothing comic or gleeful in their discourse, and more than all by the interminable gossip of Mrs. Sykes murmured close at her ear, gossip which rang the changes on four subjects, her own health and that of the various members of her family, the missionary and Jew baskets in their contents, the late meeting at Nunnally, and one which was expected to come off next week at Winbury. But at length to exhaustion she embraced the opportunity of Mr. Sweeting coming up to speak to Mrs. Sykes, to slip quietly out of the apartment and seek a moment's respite and solitude. She repaired to the dining-room, where the dear but now low remnant of a fire still burned in the grate. The place was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in their places, all was orderly. Carolyn sank into her uncle's large easy chair, half shut her eyes and rested herself, rested at least her limits, her senses, her hearing, her vision, weary with listening to nothing and gazing on vacancy. As to her mind that flew directly to the hollow. It stood on the threshold of the parlor there, then it passed to the counting-house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the presence of Robert. It so happened that neither locality had that honour, for Robert was a half a mile away from both, and much nearer to Carolyn than her deadened spirit suspected. He was at this moment crossing the churchyard, approaching the rectory-garden gate, not, however, coming to see his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief piece of intelligence to the rector. Yes, Carolyn, you hear the wire of the bell vibrate. It rings again for the fifth time this afternoon. You start, and you are certain now that this must be of whom you dream. Why you are so certain you cannot explain to yourself, but you know it. You lean forward, listening eagerly as Fanny opens the door. Right. That is the voice, low, with the slight foreign accent, but so sweet as you fancy. You half-rise. Fanny will tell him Mr. Hellstone is with company, and then he will go away. Oh, she cannot let him go. In spite of herself, in spite of her reason, she walks half across the room. She stands ready to dart out in case the step should retreat, but he enters the passage. Since your master is engaged, he says, just show me into the dining-room. Bring me pen and ink. I will write a short note and leave it for him. Now having caught these words and hearing him advance, Carolyn, if there was a door within the dining-room, would glide through it and disappear. She feels caught, hemmed in. She dreads her unexpected presence may annoy him. A second sense she would have flown to him. That second past she would flee from him. She cannot. There is no way of escape. The dining-room has but one door, through which now enters her cousin. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his face has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered a sort of apology. I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little quiet. There was something so diffident and downcast in the air and tone with which she said this, any one might perceive that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession had left her. Mr. Moore probably remembered how she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle ardour and hopeful confidence. He must have seen how the check of this morning had operated. Here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with effect, if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to practice that system in broad daylight, in his mill-yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a quiet parlor disengaged at the hour of eventide. Fanny lit the candles, which before had stood unlit on the table, brought writing materials, and left the room. Carolyn was about to follow her. Moore, to act consistently, should have let her go, whereas he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his hand, gently kept her back. He did not ask her to stay, but he would not let her go. Shall I tell my uncle you are here, as she, still in the same subdued voice? No. I can say to you, all I had to say to him, you will be my messenger? Yes, Robert. Then you may just inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames. That he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and Pearson's dressing-shop, and that I hope to have him in custody tomorrow. You can remember that? Oh, yes. These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever, and as she said them she shook her head slightly inside. Will you prosecute him? Doubtless. No, Robert. And why no, Carolyn? Because it will set all the neighborhood against you more than ever. That is no reason why I should not do my duty and defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief. But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. It is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and hit their mark at last. More laughed. A most pithy vaunt, he said he, one that redounds vastly to the credit of your dear Yorkshire friends. But don't fear for me, Lena. I am on my guard against these lamb-like compatriots of yours. Don't make yourself uneasy about me. How can I help it? You are my cousin. If anything happened—she stopped. Nothing will happen, Lena. To speak in your own language there is a providence above all. Is there not? Yes, dear Robert, may he guard you. And if prayers have efficacy, yours will benefit me. You pray for me sometimes. Not sometimes, Robert. You and Lewis and Hortons are always remembered. So I have often imagined. It has occurred to me, when weary and vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a heathen, that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night I don't suppose such vicarial piety will avail much, but the petitions come out of a sincere breast from innocent lips. They should be acceptable as Abel's offering, and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them. Annihilate that doubt, it is groundless. When a man has been brought up only to make money, and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea with anything divine, and very strange it seems that a good, pure heart should take him in and harbor him, as if he had any claim to that sort of nest. If I could guide that benign and heart, I believe I should counsel it to exclude one who does not profess to have any higher aim in life than that of patching up his broken fortune, and wiping clean from his bourgeois scuchin the foul stain of bankruptcy. The hint, though conveyed thus tenderly and modestly, as Carolyn thought, was felt keenly and comprehended dearly. Indeed, I only think, or I will only think of you as my cousin, was the quick answer. I am beginning to understand things better than I did, Robert, when you first came to England, better than I did a week, a day ago. I know it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won't do for you to be romantic, but in future you must not misunderstand me, if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not? What made you think so? Your look, your manner, but look at me now. Oh, you are different now. At present I dare speak to you. And I am the same, except that I have left the tradesman behind me in the hollow. Your kinsman alone stands before you. My cousin Robert, not Mr. Moore. Not a bit of Mr. Moore. Carolyn, here the company was heard rising in the other room. The door was opened, the pony carriage was ordered, shawls and bonnets were demanded. Mr. Hellstone called for his niece. I must go, Robert. Yes, you must go, or they will come in and find us here, and I, rather than meet all that host in the passage, will take my departure through the window. Luckily it opens like a door. One minute only. Put down the candle an instant. Good night. I kiss you because we are cousins, and, being cousins, one, two, three kisses are allowable. Carolyn, good night. The next day Moore had risen before the sun, and had taken a ride to Inverian back, ere his sister made the cafe au lait or cut the tartines for his breakfast. What business he transacted there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions. It was not her want to comment on his movements, nor his to render an account of them. The secrets of business, complicated and often dismal mysteries, were buried in his breast, and never came out of their sepulcher, saved now and then to scare Joe Scott, or give a start to some foreign correspondent. Indeed, a general habit of reserve on whatever was important seemed bred in his mercantile blood. Breakfast over he went to his counting house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters and the daily papers. Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the documents, and glanced them over. They were all short, but not it seemed sweet, probably rather sour on the contrary. For as Moore laid down the last, his nostrils emitted a derisive and defiant snuff. And though he burst into no soliloquy, there was a glance in his eye that seemed to invoke the devil, and laid charges on him to sweep the whole concern to Gehenna. However, having chosen a pen and striped away the feathered top in a brief spasm of finger fury, only finger fury, his face was placid. He dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went out and walked through the mill. On coming back, he sat down to read his newspaper. The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting. He more than once, laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire. He occasionally turned his head towards the window. He looked at intervals at his watch. In short, his mind appeared preoccupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather. For it was a fine and mild morning for the season, and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting-house stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine entered freely. But the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only an occasional sulfur puff from the soot-thick column of smoke, rushing sable from the gaunt mill chimney. A dark blue apparition, that of Joe Scott, fresh from a dying vat, appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered the words, He's come, sir, and vanished. Mr. Moore raised nod his eyes from the paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad and fusty in garments and grey-worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod and desired to take a seat, which he did. Making the remark as he removed his hat, stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat crown. And it was right done warm for February. Mr. Moore assented. At least he uttered some slight sound which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully deposited it in the corner beside him, an official-looking staff which he bore in his hand. This done he whistled, probably by way of appearing at ease. You have what is necessary, I suppose, said Mr. Moore. I, I, all's right. He renewed his whistling. Mr. Moore, his reading. The paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently, however, he returned to his cupboard, which was within reach of his long arm, opened it without rising, took out a black bottle, the same that he had produced from alone's benefit. A tumbler and a jug placed them on the table and said to his guest, Help yourself, there's water in that jar in the corner. I didn't gnaw that there's much need for a body as dry, thirsty, in a morning, said the fustian gentleman, rising and doing as requested. Will you talk not yourself, Mr. Moore? He inquired, as with skillful hand he mixed a portion, and having tested it by deep draft, sank back, satisfied, and bland in his seat. Moore, cherry of words, replied by a negative movement and murmur, It all such, yev, what a supple this stuff, on common good hollands, ye get it from foreign parts I see. I. Tack my advice and try a glass on it, them lads it's come and I'll keep you talking nobody knows how long, you'll need propin. Have you seen Mr. Skies this morning, inquired Moore? I see'd him half an hour, nay happen a quarter of an hour's in, just before I set off. He said he aimed to come here, and I shouldn't wonder but ye'll have old headstone too. I see'd him saddling his little nag as I passed at back out the rectory. The speaker was a true prophet, for the trot of the little nag's hoofs was five minutes after heard in the yard. It stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud, Boy, probably addressing Harry Scott, who usually hung about the premises from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Take my horse and lead him into the stable. Hellstone came in, marching nimbly and erect, looking browner, keener, and livelier than usual. Beautiful morning, Moore, how do ye do, my boy? Ha! Whom have we here? We're going to the personage with the staff. Sudjinn! What? You're going to work directly? On my word you lose no time, but I come to ask explanations. Your message was delivered to me. Are you sure you were on the right scent? How do you mean to set about the business? Have you got a warrant? Sudjinn has. Then you are going to seek him now. I'll accompany you. You will be spared that trouble, sir. He is coming to seek me. I am just now sitting in state, waiting his rival. And who is it? One of my parishioners? Joe Scott had entered unobserved. He now stood a most sinister phantom, half his person being died of the deepest tint of indigo, leaning on the desk. His master's answer to the rector's question was a smile. Joe took the word, putting on a quiet but pocky look, he said. It's a friend of yours, Mr. Hellstone, a gentleman you often speak of. Indeed! His name, Joe? You look well this morning. Only the Rev. Moses Baraklaw. Tubbed orator you call him sometimes, I think. Ah! said the rector, taking out his snuff-box and administering to himself a very long pinch. Ah! Couldn't have sposed it! Why the pious man never was a workman of yours more, he's a tailor by trade. And so much the worse grudge I owe him for interfering and settling my discarded men against me. And Moses was actually present at the Battle of Stillbro-Moore. He went there, wooden leg and all. I, sir, said Joe, he went there on horseback, that his leg might be noticed. He was the captain and wore a mask, the rest only had their faces blackened. And how was he found out? I'll tell you, sir, said Joe. To master's not so fond of talking, I've no objections. He courted Sarah, Mr. Moore's servant lass, and so it seems she would have nothing to say to him. She either didn't like his wooden leg, or she'd some notion about his being a hypocrite. Happen. For women is queer hands, we may say that a man worse than when there's none of them nigh. She'd have encouraged him in spite of his leg and his deceit just a past time like. I've known some of him to do as much. In some of the banniest and mimeiest look in today I've seen him. I've seen clean, trim young things that look as dente and purest daisies, and with time a body found him out to be not but stingin' venom nettles. Joseph's sensible fellow interjected Hellstone. Howsever Sarah had another string to her bow, Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her. And as women judge men by their faces, and Fred has a middling face, while Moses is none so handsome, as we all know, the lass took on with Fred. A two, three months in, Murgatroyd and Moses' chance to meet one Sunday night. They'd both come lurkin' about the premises with the notion of counselling Sarah to take a bit of walk with them. They fell out, had a tussle, and Fred was worsted, for he's young and small, and bearcloth, for all he has only one leg, is almost as strong as such in there. Indeed anybody that hears him roaring at revival or a love-feast may be sure he's no weakling. Joe, you're insupportable. You're broken, Mr. Moore. You spin out your explanation as Moses spins out his sermons. The long and the short of it is, Murgatroyd was jealous of bar-a-claw, and last night, as he and a friend took shelter in a barn from a shower, they heard and saw Moses conferring with some associates within. From their discourse it was plain he had been the leader not only at Stillbro more, but in the attack on Skye's property. Moreover they planned a deputation to wait on me this morning which the tailor is to head, and which, in the most religious and peaceful spirit, is to entreat me to put the accursed thing out of my tent. I rode over to Winbury this morning, got a constable and a warrant, and now I am waiting to give my friend the reception he deserves. Here meantime comes Skye. Mr. Hellstone, you must spirit him up. He feels timid at the thoughts of prosecuting. A gig was heard to roll into the yard. Mr. Skye's entered, a tall stout man of about fifty, comely a feature but feeble and physiognomy. He looked anxious. Have they been? Are they gone? Have you got him? Is it over? He asked. Not yet. Returned more with Flem. We are waiting for them. They'll not come. It's near noon. Better give up. It will excite bad feeling, make a stir, cause perhaps fatal consequences. You need not appear, said Moore. I shall meet them in the yard when they come, you can stay here. But my name must be seen on the law proceedings. A wife and family, Mr. Moore, a wife and family make a man cautious. Moore looked disgusted. Give way, if you please, said he. Leave me to myself. I have no objection to act alone. Only be assured you will not find safety in submission. Your partner Pearson gave way and conceded and for bore. Well that did not prevent them from attempting to shoot him in his own house. My dear sir, take a little wine and water, recommended Mr. Hellstone. The wine and water was Holland's and water, as Mr. Sacks discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof. It transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face, and made today word valiant. He now announced that he hoped he was above being trampled on by the common people. He was determined to endure the insolence of the working classes no longer. He had considered of it, made up his mind to go all lengths. If money and spirit could put down these rioters, they should be put down. Mr. Moore might do as he liked, but he, Christopher Sacks, would spend his last penny in the law before he would be beaten. He'd settle them, or he'd see. Take another glass, urged Moore. Mr. Sacks didn't mind if he did. This was a cold morning. Sudgeon had found it a worn one. It was necessary to be careful at this time of year. It was proper to take something to keep the damp out. He had a cough already. Here he coughed in attestation of the fact. Something of this sort, lifting the black bottle, was excellent taken medicinally. He poured the physic into his tumbler. He didn't make a practice of drinking spirits in the morning, but occasionally it really was prudent to take precautions. It prudent, and take them by all means, urged the host. Mr. Sacks now addressed Mr. Hellstone, who stood on the hearth, his shovel hat on his head, watching him significantly with his keen little eyes. You, sir, as a clergyman, said he, may feel it disagreeable to be present amid scenes of hurry and flurry. And I may say peril. I daresay your nerves won't stand it. You're a man of peace, sir. But we manufacturers living in the world and always in turmoil get quite belligerent. Usually there's an ardour excited by the thoughts of danger that makes my heart pant. When Ms. Sacks is afraid of the house being attacked and broken open, as she is every night, I get quite excited. I couldn't describe to you, sir, my feelings. Really, if anybody was to come, thieves or anything, I believe I should enjoy it such as my spirit. The hardest of laughs, though brief and low, and by no means insulting, was the response of the rector. More would have pressed upon the heroic mill owner a third tumbler. But the clergyman, who never transgressed, nor would suffer others in his presence to transgress, the bounds of decorum, checked him. Enough is as good as a feast, is it not, Mr. Sacks, he said. And Mr. Sacks assented, and then sat and watched Joe Scott remove the bottle at a sign from Hellstone, with a self-satisfied simper on his lips and a regretful glisten in his eye. More looked as if he should have liked to fool him the top of his bent. What would a certain young kinswoman of his have said? Would she have seen her dear, good, great Robert, her Coriolanus, just now? Would she have acknowledged that in that mischievous, sardonic visage, the same face to which she had looked up with such love, which had bent over her with such gentleness last night? Was that the man who had spent so quiet an evening with his sister and his cousin so suave to one, so tender to the other, reading Shakespeare and listening to Cheneer? Yes, it was the same man, only seen on a different side, aside Caroline had not yet fairly beheld, though perhaps she had enough sangacity faintly to suspect its existence. Well, Caroline had, doubtless, her defective side, too. She was human. She must, then, have been very imperfect, and had she seen more on his very worse side she probably would have said this to herself and excused him. Love can excuse anything except meanness. But meanness kills love, cripples even natural affection. Without esteem true love cannot exist. Love, with all his faults, might be esteemed, for he had no moral scruffila in his mind, no hopeless polluting taint, such, for instance, as that falsehood, neither was he the slave of his appetites, the act of life to which he had been born and bred had given him something else to do than to join the futile chase of the pleasure-hunter. He was a man integrated, the disciple of reason, not the votary of sense. The same might be said of old Hellstone, neither of these two would look, think, or speak a lie, for neither of them had the wretched black bottle, which had been just put away. Any charms both might boast a valid claim to the proud title of Lord of the Creation, for no animal vice was Lord of them. They looked and were superior beings to poor Sykes. A sort of gathering and trampling sound was heard in the yard, and then a pause. More walked to the window. Hellstone followed. Both stood on one side, the tall junior behind the undersized senior, looking forth carefully so that they might not be visible from without. Their sole comment on what they saw was a cynical smile flashed into each other's stern eyes. A flourishing oratorical cough was now heard, followed by the interjection, whist, designed as it seemed to still the hum of several voices. More opened his casement an inch or two to admit sound more freely. Joseph Scott began a snuffling voice. Scott was standing sentinel at the counting-house door. Might we inquire if your master be within? And is to be spoken to. He's within, I said, Joe, nonchalantly. Would you then, if you please, emphasis on you, have the goodness to tell him that twelve gentlemen wants to see him? He'd happen to ask what for, suggested Joe. I might as well tell him at the same time. For a purpose, was the answer. Joe entered. Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to see ya. For a purpose. Good, Joe, I'm their man. Suggen, come when I whistle. More went out, chuckling dryly. He'd advanced into the yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat. His cap brim over his eyes, shading in some measure their deep dancing ray of scorn. Twelve men waited in the yard, some in their shirt sleeves, some in blue aprons. Two figured conspicuously in the van of the party. One, a little dapper, strutting man with a turned up nose. The other, a broad-shouldered fellow, distinguished no less by his demure face and cat-like, trustless eyes than by a wooden leg and stout crutch. There was a kind of leer about his lips. He seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing. His whole air was anything but that of a true man. Good morning, Mr. Bar-claw," said Moore, debonairly for him. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by A. Janelle Risa. "'Peace be unto you,' was the answer. Mr. Bar-claw entirely closing his natural half-shut eyes as he delivered it. "'I'm obliged to you. Peace is an excellent thing. There's nothing I more wish for myself, but that is not all you have to say to me, I suppose. I imagine peace is not your purpose.' "'As to our purpose,' began Bar-claw. "'It's one that may sound strange and perhaps foolish to ears like yours. To the point, if you please, and let me hear what it is.' "'You see here, sir, it is a grand purpose, and,' changing his voice from half-sneer to a wine, "'it's the Lord's own purpose, and that's better. Do you want a subscription to a new renter's chapter, Mr. Bar-claw? Just your errand be something of that sort. I cannot see what you have to do with it. I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir, but as Providence had led you to mention the subject, I'll make it my way to take only a trifle you may have to spare. The smallest contribution will be acceptable. With that, he doffed his hat and held it out as a begging-box, a brazen grin at the same time crossing his countenance. If I gave you six pence, you would drink it.' Bar-claw uplifted the palms of his hands and the whites of his eyes, evincing in the gesture a mere burlesque of hypocrisy. "'You seem a fine fellow,' said Moore, quite coolly and dryly. You don't care for showing me that you are a double-died hypocrite, that your trade is fraud. You expect, indeed, to make me laugh at the cleverness with which you play your coarsely, farcical part, while at the same time you think you are deceiving the men behind you. Moses' countenance lowered. He saw that he had gone too far. He was going to answer when the second leader, impatient of being hit through, kept in the background, stepped forward. This man did not look like a traitor, though he had an exceedingly self-confident and conceited air. "'Mr. Moore,' commenced he, speaking also in his throat and nose and enunciating each word very slowly, as if with a view to giving his audience time to appreciate fully the uncommon elegance of the phraseology. It might perhaps justly be said that reason rather than peace is our purpose. We come in the first place to request you hear reason, and should you refuse, it is my duty to warn you in very decided terms that measures will be had resort to.' He meant recourse, which will probably terminate in bringing you to a sense of the unwisdom of the foolishness which seems to guide and guard your proceedings as a tradesman in this manufacturing part of the country. "'Sir, I would beg to allude that as Furner, coming from distant coast, another quarter and hemisphere of this globe-throne, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these shores, the cliffs of Albion, you have not that understanding of huzz and were ways which might conduce to the benefit of the working classes. If to come at once to particulars, you'd consider to give up this here mill, and go without further protraction straight home to where you belong. It ought happen be as well. I can see not again such a plan would have ye to say to lads, turning round to the other members of the deputation who responded unanimously, here, here, bravio noa o tims, murmured scott, who stood behind Mr. Moore. Others will never beat that, Clipsoe Albion, and Tother Hemisphere. My sirty, did ye come from the Antarctic zone, maester, Moses is dished. Moses however refused to be dished. He thought he would try again. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at noa o tims, he launched out in his turn, and now he spoke in a serious tone, relinquishing the sarcasm which ye found had not answered. However ye set up the polo, ye're taint mangus, Mr. Moore. We lived in peace and quietness, ye, I may say, in all loving kindness. I am not myself an aged person as yet, but I can remember as far back as maybe some twenty year, when hand labour were encouraged and respected, and no mischief maker had ventured to introduce this here machine, which is so pernicious. Now I'm not a cloth dresser myself, but by trade a tailor. My heart is of a softish nature. I'm a very feelin' man, and when I see my brethren oppressed, like my great namesake of old, I stand up for him which intent I this day speak with ye face to face, and advises ye to part with your infernal machinery and take on more hands. What if I don't follow your advice, Mr. Baraklaw? The Lord pardon ye, the Lord soften your heart, sir. Are you in connection with the Wesleyans now, Mr. Baraklaw? Praise God bless his name, I'm a joined methady, which in no respect prevents you from being at the same time a drunkard and a swindler. I saw you one night a week ago, lay dead drunk by the roadside, as I returned from Stillbrough Market, and while you preach peace, you make it the business of your life to stir up dissension. You no more sympathize with the poor who are in distress than you sympathize with me. You incite them to outrage for bad purposes of your own. So does the individual called Noah of Timbs. You two are restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels whose chief motive principle is a selfish ambition as dangerous as it is purile. The persons behind you are some of them honest, though misguided men. But you two I count altogether bad. Baraklaw was going to speak. You have had your say and now I will have mine. As to being dictated to by you or any Jack, Gem or Jonathan on earth, I shall not suffer it for a moment. You desire me to quit the country. You request me to part with my machinery. In case I refuse, you threaten me. I do refuse, point blank. Here I stay and by this mill I stand, and into it I convey the best machinery inventors can furnish. What will you do? The utmost you can do and this you will never dare to do is burn down my mill, destroy its contents and shoot me. What then? Suppose that building was a ruin and I was a corpse. What then you lads behind these two scamps? Would that stop invention or exhaust science? Not for the fraction of a second of time. Whether and better gig mill would rise on the ruins of this and perhaps a more enterprising owner come in my place. Hear me. I'll make my cloth as I please and according to the best lights I have, in its manufacture I will employ what means I choose. Whoever after hearing this shall dare interfere with me may just take the consequences. An example shall prove I'm in earnest. He whistled shrill and loud. Sgt. his staff and warrant came on the scene. Moore turned sharply to bar-claw. You were at still, bro. Said he. I have proof of that. You were on the moor. You wore a mask. You knocked down one of my men with your own hand. You, a preacher of the gospel. Sgt. Arrest him. Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to rescue, but the right hand which all this while had lain hidden in Moore's breast reappearing held out a pistol. Both barrels are loaded, said he. I'm quite determined. Keep off. Stepping backwards, facing the foe as he went, he guarded his prey to the counting house. He ordered Joe Scott to pass in with Sgt. and the prisoner and to bolt the door inside. For himself he walked backwards and forwards along the front of the mill, looking meditatively on the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but still holding the pistol. The eleven remaining deputies watched him some time, talking under their breath to each other. At length one of them approached. This man looked very different from either of the other two who had previously spoken. He was hard-favored, but modest and manly-looking. I've not much faith in Moses' baroclaw, said he. And I would speak a word to you myself, Mr. Moore. It's out of no ill will that I'm here for my part. It's just to make an effort to get things straightened, for they're solely a crooked. You see, we're ill-off. Very ill-off, where families is poor and pined. We're thrown out of work with these frames. We can get not to do. We can earn not. What is to be done? Man, we say, whist and lig us down and dee. Nay, I have no grand words at my tongue's end, Mr. Moore. But I feel that it would be a low principle for a reasonable man to starve to death like a dumb cretter. I will not do. I'm not for shed and blood. I'll neither kill a man nor hurt a man, and I'm not for pulling down mills and breaking machines. For as you say that way ago, and I'll never stop invention, but I'll talk. I'll make a big as din as ever I can. Invention may be all right, but I know it isn't for poor folks to starve. Then that governs man find a way to help us. They man make fresh ordinations. You'll say that's hard to do, so much louder man, we shout at them. For so much slack are will to parliament men be set on a tough job. Worry the parliament men as much as you please, said Moore. But to worry the mill owners is absurd, and I, for one, won't stand it. You're a hard right on, returned the workman. Willn't you give us a bit of time? Willn't you consent to make your changes more slowly? Am I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire? Answer me that. You're yourselfen. And only myself. And if I stopped by the way an instant, while others are rushing on, I should be trodden down. If I did as you wished me to do, I would be bankrupt in a month. And would my bankruptcy put bread into your hungry children's mouths, William Theron, neither to your dictation nor to that of any other will I submit? Talk to me no more about machinery. I will have my own way. I shall get new frames in tomorrow. If you broke these, I would still get more. I'll never give in. Here the mill bell rang 12 o'clock. It was the dinner hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered the counting-house. His last words had left a harsh impression. He at least had failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of by speaking kindly to William Theron, who was a very honest man without envy or hatred of those more happily circumstance than himself, thinking at no hardship and no injustice to be forced to live by labor, disposed to be honorably content if he could get work to do. Moore might have made a friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn such a man without a conciliatory or sympathizing expression. The poor fellow's face looked haggard with want. He had the aspect of a man who had not known what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months. And yet there is no ferocity, no malignancy in his countenance. It was worn, dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus with the words I'll never give in and not a whisper of goodwill or hope or aid? Farron, as he went home to his cottage once in better times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, now, though still clean, very dreary because so poor, asked himself this question. He concluded that the foreign mill owner was a selfish unfeeling and he thought, too, a foolish man. It appeared to him that emigration, had he only the means to emigrate, would be preferable to service under such a master. He felt much cast down, almost hopeless. On his entrance his wife served out, in orderly sort, such a dinner as she had to give him and the barons. It was only porridge and too little of that. Some of the younger children asked for more when they had done their portion, an application which disturbed William much. While his wife quieted them as well as she could, he left his seat and went to the door. He whistled a cheery stave which did not, however, prevent a broad drop or two much more like the first of a thundershower than those which oozed from the wound of the gladiator, from the gathering lids of his gray eyes and plashing vents to the threshold. He cleared his vision with his sleeve and the melting mood over a very stern one followed. He still stood, brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came up, a clergyman. He might be seen at once, but neither Hellstone, nor Malone, nor Dunn, nor Sweeting. He might be forty years old. He was plain-looking, dark-complexioned, and already rather gray-haired. He stooped a little in walking. His countenance as he came on wore an abstracted and somewhat doleful air, but in approaching farren he looked up, and then a hearty expression illuminated the preoccupied, serious face. Is it you, William? How are you, he asked. Middling, Mr. Hall, how are ye? Will ye step in and rest ye? Mr. Hall, whose name the reader has seen mentioned before, and who indeed was vicar of Nunley, of which parish farren was a native, and from once he had removed but three years ago to reside in Briarfield, for the convenience of being near Hollows Mill, where he had obtained work. Entered the cottage, and having greeted the good wife and the children sat down. He proceeded to talk very cheerfully about the length of time that had elapsed since the family quitted his parish, the changes which had occurred since. He answered questions touching his sister Margaret, who is inquired after with much interest. He asked questions in his turn, and at last glancing hastily and anxiously round through his spectacles. He wore spectacles, for he was short-sighted, at the bare room, in the meager and wan faces of the circle around him, for the children had come round his knee, and the father and mother stood before him. He said abruptly, And how are ye all? How do ye get on? Mr. Hall, be it remarked, though an accomplished scholar not only spoke with a strong northern accent, but on occasion used freely north-country expressions. We get on poorly, said William. We're all out of work. I've served most of the household stuff, as ye may see, and what were to do next, God knows. Has Mr. Moore turned you off? He has turned us off, and I've such an opinion of him now that I think if he'd take me on again tomorrow I wouldn't work for him. It's not like you to say so, William. I know it isn't, but I'm getting different to myself. I feel I am changing. I wouldn't heed if the barons and the wife had enough to live on, but they're pinched, they're pined. Well, my lad, and so are you, I see you are. These are grievous times. I see suffering wherever I turn. William sit down, Gray sit down, let us talk it over. And in order the better to talk it over, Mr. Hall lifted the least of the children onto his knee, and placed his hand on the head of the next least. But when the small things began to chatter to him, he bade them, whist, and fixing his eyes on the grate, he regarded the handful of embers which burned there very gravely. Sad times, he said, and they last long, it is the will of God his will be done, but he tries us to the utmost. And again he reflected, you've no money, William, and you've nothing you could sell to raise a small sum? No, I've sell the chest of drawers, and the clock, and the bit of mahogany stand, and the wife's bonny tea tray, and said o' Cheney that she brought for a portion when we were wed. And if somebody lent you a pound or two, could you make any good use of it? Could you get into a new way of doing something? Farron did not answer, but his wife said quickly, I am sure he could. He's a very contriving chap, is our William. If he'd two or three pounds, he could begin selling stuff. Could you, William? Please, God, returned William deliberately. I could buy groceries, and bits of tapes, and thread, and what I thought would sell, and I would begin hawking at first. And you know, sir, interposed Grace, you're sure William would neither drink nor idle nor waste it in any way. He's my husband, and I shouldn't praise him. But I will say there's not a sober, honest man in England nor he is. Well, I'll speak to one or two friends, and I think I can promise to let him have five pounds in a day or two. As alone you might, not a gift, he must pay it back. I understand, sir, I'm quite agreeable to that. Meantime there's a few shillings for you, Gracie, just to keep the pot boiling till custom comes. Now, Baron, stand up in a row and say your catechism while your mother goes and buy some dinner. For you've not had much today, I'll be bound. You begin, Ben, what's your name? Mr. Hall stayed till Grace came back. Then he hastily took his leave, shaking hands with both Farron and his wife. Just at the door he said to them a few brief, but very earnest words of religious consolation and exhortation. With a mutual, God bless you, sir, God bless you, my friends. They separated. End of Chapter 8, Part 2. Recording by A. Janelle Risa. Chapter 9, Part 1 of Shirley. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Shirley by Charlotte Bronte. Mr. Hall Stone and Sykes began to be extremely close and congratulatory with Mr. Moore when he returned to them after dismissing the deputation. He was so quiet, however, under their compliments, upon his firmness, etc., and wore accountants so like a still, dark day, equally seamless and breezeless, that the rector, after glancing shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his coat, and said to Sykes, whose senses were not acute enough to enable him to discover unassisted where his presence and conversation were a nuisance. Come, sir, your road and mine lie partly together. Had we not better bury each other company? We'll bid Moore good morning, and leave him to the happy fancies he seems disposed to indulge. And where is such an, demanded Moore, looking up. Aha! cried Hall Stone. I've not been quite idle while you were busy. I've been helping you a little. I flattered myself not injudiciously. I thought it better not to lose time. So, while you were parlaying with that down-looking gentleman, Farron, I think his name is, I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr. Sykes' gig round, and then I smuggled, Sugden and his brother Moses, one leg in all, through the aperture, and saw them mount the gig, always with our good friend Sykes' permission, of course. Sugden took the reins he drives like Jehu, and in another quarter of an hour Bear Claw will be safe, and still bro' jail. Very good, thank you, said Moore, and good morning, gentlemen, he added, and so politely conducted them to the door, and saw them clear of his premises. He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day. He did not even bandy a repartee with Joe Scott, who, for his part, said to his master only just what was absolutely necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequently came to poke the counting house fire for him, and once, as he was locking up for the day, the mill was then working short time owing to the slackness of trade. Observe that it was a grand evening, and he could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up the hollow, it would do him good. At this recommendation Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude meant, and whether he took him for a woman or a child, seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him by the shoulders out of his presence. He called him back, however, ere he had reached the yard gate. Joe, do you know those fairens? They are not well off, I suppose. They cannot be well off, sir, when they have not had work as a three-month. You'd see yourself at Williams sorely changed, fair-paired. They've sold most of the stuff out of the house. He was not a bad workman. He never had a better sir, since he began to trade. The decent people, the whole family. Never decenter. The wife's a right-can't-body, and is clean. You might eat your porous off the house floor. There sorely come down. I wish William could get a job as gardener or a summit that way. He understands gardening wheel. He once lived with a Scotchman that attached him the mischiefs of the craft, as they say. Now then you can go, Joe. You need not stand there staring at me. You've no orders to give, sir. Then, but for you to take yourself off, which Joe did accordingly. Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this had been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meridian sunshine, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and Aredasca whorefrost was insidiously stealing over growing grass and unfolding bud. It whitened the pavement in front of Briarmane's, Mr. York's residence, and made silent havoc among the tender plants in his garden, and on the mossy level of his lawn. As to that great tree, strong-trunked and broad-armed, which guarded the gable nearest the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm its still-bare boughs, and so did the leafless grove of walnut trees rising tall behind the house. In the dusk of the moonless, of starry night, lights from windows shone vividly. This was no dark or lonely scene, nor even a silent one. Briarmane stood near the highway. It was rather an old place, and had been built ere the highway was cut, and when a lane winding up through fields was the only path conducting to it. Briarfield lay scarce a mile off, its helm was heard, its glare distinctly seen. Briarchapel, a large, new, raw, westland place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant, and as there was even now a prayer meeting being held within its walls, the illumination of its windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn of a most extraordinary description, such as a very cheery Quaker, might feel himself moved by the spirit to dance to, rouse cheerily all the echoes of the vicinity. The words were distinctly audible by snatches. Here is a quotation or two from different strains, for the singers passed jauntly from him to him, and from tune to tune, with an ease and buoyancy all their own. O, who can explain the struggle for life, this travel and pain, this trembling and strife, plague, earthquake and famine, and tumult and war, the wonderful coming of Jesus to clear? 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 clamourous prayer, accompanied by fearful groans, a shout of, I found liberty, Dota bills his 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. O, the goodness of God, in employing a claw, his tribute of glory to raise, his standard to bear, and with triumph to clear, his unspeakable riches of grace. O, the fathomless love that is dain to approve, and prosper the work in 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. As Danza which follows this, after another and longer and to regnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic cries, agonized groans, seem to cap the climax of noise and zeal. Sleeping on the brink of zin, Tophik gaped to take us in, mercy to our rescue flew, broke the snare and brought us through. Here is an alliance din, undevoured we still remain, past secure the watery flood, hanging on the arm of God. Here, terrible, most distracting to the ear, was the strange shout in which the last Danza 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 praise of its solid slating. But if briar chapel seemed alive, so also did briar means, though certainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quieter phase of existence than the temple. Some of its windows, too, were aglow, the lower casements opened upon the lawn, curtains concealed the interior, and partly obscure the ray of the candles which lit it, but they did not entirely muffle the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged to enter that front door, and to penetrate to the domestic sanctum. It is not the presence of company which makes Mr. York's habitation lively, for there is none within it safe his own family, and they are assembled in that farthest room to the right, the back parlor. This is the usual sitting room of an evening. Those windows would be seen by daylight to be of brilliantly stained glass, purple and amber the predominant hues, glittering round a gravely tinted medallion in the center of each, representing the swabhead of William Shakespeare, and the serene one of John Milton. Some Canadian views hung on the walls, green forest and blue water scenery, and in the midst of them blazes a night eruption of Asuvius, very ardently it glows, contrasted with the cool foam and azure of cataracts and the dusky depths of woods. The fire illuminating this room, reader, is such as, if you be a southern, you do not often see burning on the hearth of a private apartment. It is a clear, hot, cold fire, heaped high in the ample chimney. Mr. York will have such fires even in warm summer weather. He sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow supporting a candle, but he is not reading, he is watching his children. Opposite to him sits his lady, a person at whom I might describe 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, inevitable care, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden people ever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, well a day! Mrs. York had that notion, and grave a Saturn she was, morning, noon, and night, and hard things she thought of any unhappy white, especially of the female sex, who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay heart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was to be profane, to be cheerful was to be frivolous. She drew no distinctions. Yet she was a very good wife, a very careful mother, who looked after her children unceasingly, was sincerely attached to her husband. Only the worst of it was. If she could have had her will, she would not have permitted him to have any friend in the world beside herself. All his relations were insupportable to her, and she kept them at arm's length. Mr. York and she agreed perfectly well, yet he was naturally a social, hospitable man, an advocate for family unity, and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none but lively, cheerful women. Why he chose her, how they contrived to suit each other, is a problem puzzling enough, but which might soon be solved if one had time to go into the analysis of the case. Suffice it here to say that York had a shadowy side, as well as a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy side found sympathy and affinity in the whole of his wife's uniformly overcast nature. For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman, never set a weak or a trite thing, took stern democratic views of society, and rather cynical ones of human nature, considered herself perfect and safe, and the rest of the world all wrong. Her main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitable substitution of all men, things, creeds, and parties. The suspicion was amiss 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 to turn out quite ordinary, commonplace beings, and they were not. You see six of them, reader. The youngest is a baby on the mother's knee. It is all her own yet, and that when she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect, condemn. It derives its sustenance from her. It hangs on her. It clings to her. It loves her above everything else in the world. She is sure of that, because, as it lives by her, it cannot be otherwise. Therefore she loves it. The next two are girls. Rose and Jesse. They are both now with their father's knee. They seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old. She is like her father, the most like him of the whole group. But it is a granite head copied in ivory. All is softened in color and line. York himself has a harsh face. His daughter's is not harsh. Neither is it quite pretty. It is simple, childlike in feature. The round cheeks bloom. As to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than childlike. A serious soul lights them. A young soul yet, but it will mature if the body lives. And neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either. Stronger, much purer, 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 woman of dark and dreary duties. And Rose has a mindful set, thick sewn with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed. She is never rebelled yet, but if hard driven she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all. Rose loves her father. Her father does not rule her with a rod of iron. He is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live. So bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gleam in her language. This idea makes him often, sadly, tender to her. He has no idea that little Jesse will die young. She is so gay and chattering, arch, original even now, passionate when provoked, but most affectionate of caressed, by turns gentle and rattling, exacting yet generous, fearless of her mother, for instance, whose irrationally hard and strict rule she has often defied, yet reliant on any who will help her. Jesse, with her little peeked face, engaging prattle and winning ways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is. It is odd that the doll should resemble her mother feature by feature, as Rose resembles her father. And yet, the physiognomy, how different. Is to York, if a magic mirror were now held before you, and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they will be twenty years from this night, what would you think? The magic mirror is here. You shall learn their destinies, and first that of your little life, Jesse. Do you know this place? No, you never saw it. But you recognize the nature of these trees, this foliage, the cypress, the willow, the you. Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to you. Where are these dim garlands of everlasting flowers? Here is the place, green sod, and a gray marble headstone. Jesse sleeps below. She lived through an April day. Much love was she, much loving. She often, in her brief life, shed tears. She had frequent sorrows. She smiled between, gladdening whatever saw her. Her death was tranquil, and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for Rose had been hushed day in defense through many trials. The dying and the watching English girls were at that hour alone in a foreign country, and the soil of that country gave Jesse a grave. Now behold Rose two years later. The crosses and garlands look strange, but the hills and woods of this landscape look still stranger. Now behold Rose two years later. The crosses and garlands look strange, but the hills and woods of this landscape look still stranger. This indeed is far from England. Remote must be the shores which wear that wild, luxuriant aspect. This is some virgin solitude. Unknown birds flutter around the skirts of that forest. No European river this, on whose banks Rose sits thinking. The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely immigrant in some region of the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come 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. Observe their three heads, much alike at a first glance, at a second, different, at a third, contrasted. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked, or the whole trio. Small English features they all possess, all owned of blended resemblance to desire and mother, and yet a distinctive physiognomy, mark of a separate character, belongs to each. I shall not say much about Matthew, the first born of the house, though it is impossible to avoid gazing at him long and conjecturing what qualities that visage hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking boy, that jet-black hair, white brow, high-colored cheek, those quick, dark eyes, are good points in their way. How is it that, look as long as you will? 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, ever in a non, it reminds you strangely, the eruption of Asuvius? Flame and shadow seem the component parts of that lad's soul. No daylight in it, and no sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shown there. He has an English frame, but, apparently, not an English mind, you would say, an Italian stiletto and a sheath of British workmanship. He has grasped in the game, look at his scowl. Mr. York sees it, and what does he say? In a low voice he pleads, Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother. And this is ever the tone adopted by both parents. Theoretically they decry partiality. No rites of primogeniture are to be allowed in that house. The Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be opposed. They avert provocation from him as assiduously as they would avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder. Conceit, conciliate, is their motto wherever he is concerned. The Republicans are fast making a tyrant of their own flesh and blood. This the younger scions know and feel, and at heart they all rebel against the injustice. They cannot read their parents' motives. They only see the difference of treatment. The dragon's teeth are already sewn amongst Mr. York's young, olive branches. Discord will one day be the harvest. Mark is a Bonnie-looking boy, the most regular feature to the family. He is exceedingly calm, his smile is shrewd, he can say the driest, most cutting things in the quietest of tones. Despite his tranquility, a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds you that the smoothest waters are not always the safest. Besides, he is too still, unmoved, flimetic 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 diffusions will sound to him mere rant and jargon. Enthusiasm will be his aversion and contempt. Mark will have no youth. While he looks juvenile and blooming, he will be already middle-aged in mind. His body is now fourteen years of age, but his soul is already thirty. Martin, the youngest of the three, owns another nature. Life may or may not be brief for him, but it will certainly be brilliant. He will pass through all its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy them, then outlive them. That boy is not handsome. Not so handsome as either of his brothers. He is plain. There is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and he will wear it till he is near twenty. Then he will put it off. About that period he'll make himself handsome. He will wear uncouth manners till that age, perhaps homely garments, but the chrysalis will retain the power of transfiguring itself into the butterfly. And such transfiguration will, in due season, take place. In space he will be vain, probably a downright puppy, eager for pleasure and desirous of admiration, a thirst too for knowledge. And he will want all that the world can give him, both of enjoyment and lore. He will perhaps take deep drops at each fount. That there satisfied what next? I know not. Martin might be a remarkable man. Whether he will or not, the seer is powerless to predict. On that subject there has been no open vision. Like Mr. York's family in the aggregate, there is as much mental power in those six young heads as much originality, as much activity, and vigor of brain, as, divided amongst half a dozen commonplace broods, would give to each rather more than an average amount of sense and capacity. Mr. York knows this, and is proud of his race. York sure has such families here and there amongst her hills and worlds. Peculiar, racy, vigorous, of good blood and strong brain, turbulent somewhat in their pride of their strength, and intractable in the force of their native powers, wanting polish, wanting consideration, wanting docility, but sound, spirited, and true brat as the eagle on the cliff or the steed in the steppe. A low tap is heard at the parlor door. The boys have been making such noise over their game, and little Jessie besides has been singing so sweet a Scotch song to her father, who delights in Scotch and Italian songs, and has taught his musical little daughter some of the best, that the ring at the outer door was not observed. Come in, says Mrs. York, in that conscientiously constrained and solemnized voice of hers, which ever modulates itself to a funeral dreariness of tone. There the subject is exercised upon, be but to give orders for the making of a pudding in the kitchen, to bid the boys hang up their caps in the hall, or to call the girls to their sewing. Come in! And in came Robert Moore. Moore's habitual gravity, as well as his obstinousness, for the case of spirit to cantress is never ordered up when he pays an evening visit, has so far recommended him to Mrs. York, that she has not yet made him the subject of private animaversions with her husband. She has not yet found out that he is hampered by a secret intrigue which prevents him from marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing, discoveries which she made in an early date after marriage concerning most of her husband's bachelor friends, and excluded them from her board accordingly, which, part of her conduct, indeed, might be said to have its just insensible as well as its harsh side. Well, is it you? She says to Mr. Moore, as he comes up to her and gives 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. Poo! says Mrs. York, who despises conventional smoothness quite as much as her husband does, and practices it as little, and whose plain speaking, on all occasions, is carried to a point calculated, sometimes, to awaken an admiration, but often an alarm. Poo! You will need not talk nonsense to me. A single man can have a home if he likes. Pray does not your sister make a home for you? Not she, joined in Mr. York. Hortense is an honest last, but when I was Robert's age I had five or six sisters, all as decent and proper as she is, but you see, Husser, for all that it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife. And sorely he has repented marrying me, added Mrs. York, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense. He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see his punishment. Here she pointed to her children. Who would burden themselves with such a set of great, rough lads as those that they could help it? It is not only bringing them into the world, though that is bad enough, 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 and two daughters, and look twice before you leap. I am not tempted now at any rate. I think these are not times for marrying or giving in marriage. A legibrious sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain Mrs. York's approbation. She nodded and groaned acquiescence, but in a minute she said, I make little account of the wisdom of a Solomon of your age. It will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you. Meantime, sit down, sir. You can talk, I suppose, as well as sitting and standing. This was her way of inviting her guest to take a chair. He had no sooner obeyed her than little Jesse jumped from her father's knee and ran into Mr. 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 as good. He promised that I should be his wife last summer. The first time he saw me in my new white frock and blue sash, didn't he, father? These children were not accustomed to say papa and mama. Their mother would allow no such namby-pamby. I am a little lassy, he promised. I'll bear witness, but make him say it over again now, Jesse. Such as he are only false loons. He is not false. He is too bonny to be false, cried Jesse, looking up to her tall, sweet heart with the fullest confidence in his faith. Bonny, cried Mr. York, that's the reason that he should be, and proof that he is a scoundrel. But he looks too sorrowful to be false. He aren't opposed to quiet voice from behind the father's chair. If he were always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs. Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all, Rose, remarked Mr. York. He's not sentimental, said Rose. Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling at the same time. How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose? Because I heard a lady say you were not. Voilà, qui devions interressants, exclaimed Mr. York, hitching his chair near the fire. A lady? That has quite a romantic twang. We must guess who it is. Rosie, whisper the name low to your father after him here. Rose, don't be too forward to talk. Here interrupt Mrs. York and her usual killjoy fashion. Nor Jesse either. It becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the presence of their elders. Why have we tongues then? Asked Jesse pertly, while Rose only looked at her mother with an expression that seemed to say she should take that maxim in and think it over at her leisure. After two minutes, gray deliberation, she asked. Why especially girls, mother? Firstly because I say so, and secondly because discretion and reserve are a girl's best wisdom. My dear madam, observe more. What you say is excellent. It reminds me indeed of my dear sister's observations, but really it is not applicable to these little ones. Let Rose and Jesse talk to me freely, or my chief pleasure in coming here is gone. I like their prattle. It does me good. Does it not? asked Jesse. More good than if the rough lads came round you. You call them rough mother yourself. Yes, mignon, a thousand dimes more good. I have rough lads enough about me all day long, prulé. There are plenty of people, continued she, who take notice of the boys. All my uncles and aunts seem to think their nephew's better than their nieces, and when gentlemen come here to dine, it is always Matthew 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 not so much your friend as he is mine. He is my particular acquaintance, remember that. And she held up her small hand within the monetary gesture. End of Chapter 9, Part 1. Chapter 9, Part 2 of Shirley. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tina Horning Shirley by Charlotte Bronte. Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished by that small hand. Her will daily bent itself to that of the impetuous little Jessie. She was guided, overruled by Jessie in a thousand things. On all occasions of show and pleasure, Jessie took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background. Whereas when the disagreeables of life, its work and privations were in question, Rose instinctively took upon her, in addition to her own share, what she could of her sisters. Jessie had already settled it in her mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married. Rose, she decided, must be an old maid to live with her, look after her children, keep her house. This state of things is not uncommon between two sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty. But in this case, if there was a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage. Her face was more regular-featured than that of the pecan-little Jessie. Jessie, however, was destined to possess, along with sprightly intelligence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, the power to charm when, where, and whom she would. Rose was to have a fine generous soul, a noble intellect, profoundly cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract was not to be hers. Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I was sentimental, urged Mr. Moore. Rose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have held him a while in doubt. 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 Jessie and I went to spend the day at Winbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, 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 the drawing-room talking about you. Did you know none of them? Hannah and Harriet and Dora and Mary Sykes. Good! Were they abusing me, Rosie? 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 a man-hater. What besides? Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy. Better! cried Mr. York, laughing. Oh, excellent! Hannah, that's the one 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 affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle. Again Mr. York laughed. Mrs. York even joined in this time. You see, in what esteem you are held behind your back, said she. Yet I believe that after to catch you. She said her cap at you when you first came into the country, old as she is. And who contradicted her, Rosie? inquired Moore. A lady whom I don't know, because she never visits here, so I see her every Sunday at church. She sits in the pew near the pulpit. I generally look at her instead of looking at my prayer-book, for she is like a picture in our dining-room. That woman with the dove in her hand? 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 Jesse, in a tone of exceeding surprise. That's so like Rose. After Moore I often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives. I am sure she does not live all her time in this. One is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter which everybody else knows. To think of her going solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particular person, and never so much as asking that person's name. She means Caroline Helston, director's niece. I remember all about it. Mrs. Helston was quite angry with Ann Pearson. She said, Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental. You mistake his character utterly, or rather not one of you here knows anything about it. Now, shall I tell you what she is like? I can tell what people are like, and how they are dressed better than Rose can. Let us hear. She is nice. She is fair. She has a pretty, white, slender throat. She has long curls, not stiff ones. They hang loose and soft. Her color is brown, but not dark. She speaks quietly with a dear tone. She never makes a bustle in moving. She often wears a gray silk dress. She is neat all over. Her gowns and her shoes and her gloves always fit her. She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean to be like her. Shall I suit you if I am? Will you really marry me? More stroke Jesse's hair. For a minute he seemed as if he would draw her nearer to him, but instead he put her a little farther off. Oh! You won't have me! You push me away! Why, Jesse, you care nothing about me! You never come to see me now at the hollow. Because you don't ask me. Hereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitation to pay him a visit next day, promising that, as he was going to stillbrow in the morning, he would buy them each a present, of what nature he would not then declare, but they must come and see. Jesse was about to reply when one of the boys unexpectedly broke in. I know that Miss Halston you have all been perlavering about. She's an ugly girl. I hate her. I hate all womenites. I wonder what they were made for. Martin! said his father, for Martin it was. The lad only answered by turning his cynical young face, half arch, half truculent, towards the paternal chair. In my lad thou art a swaggering welp now, thou wilt some day be an outrageous puppy, but stick to those sentiments of thine. See I'll write down the words now in my pocket-book. The senior took out a Morocco-covered book, and deliberately wrote therein. Ten years, Hans Martin, if thou and I be both alive at that day, I'll remind thee of that speech. I'll say the same then. I mean always to hate women. They're such dolls. They do nothing but dress themselves finely, and go swimming about to be admired. I'll never marry. I'll be a bachelor. Stick to it! Stick to it! Hester, addressing his wife, I was like him when I was his age, a regular misogymist, and behold, by the time I was three and twenty, being then a tourist in France and Italy, and the Lord knows where, I curled my hair every night before I went to bed, and wore a ring in my ear, and would have worn one in my nose, if it had been the fashion, and all that I might make myself pleasing and charming to the ladies. Martin will do the like. Will I? Never. I've more sense. What a guy you were, father. As to dressing, I make this vow. I'll never dress more finely than as you see me at present. Mr. Moore, I'm clad in blue cloth from top to toe, and they laugh at me and call me sailor at the grammar school. I laugh louder than them, and say they are all magpies and parrots, with their coats one color, and their whiskets another, and their trousers a third. I'll always wear blue cloth, and nothing but blue cloth. It is beneath a human being's dignity to dress himself in party-colored garments. Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor's shop will have choice of colors varied enough for thy exacting taste, no perfumers, store's essences exquisite 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 books on a side-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 Miss Caroline Halston's part to say you were not sentimental. I thought you appeared confused when my sisters told you the words, as if you felt flattered. You turned red, just like a certain vain little lad at our school, who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a rise in the class. For your benefit, Mr. Moore, I've been looking up the word sentimental in the dictionary, and I find it to mean tinctured with sentiment. On examining further, sentiment is explained to be thought, 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 for admiration. He had his say and was silent. Ma foie, mon ami, observed Mr. Moore to York, ce sont vraiment des enfants terribles que les vôtres. Books who had been listening attentively to Mark's speech replied to him. There are different kinds of thoughts, ideas, and notions, said she, good and bad. Sentimental must refer to the bad. Or Miss Helston must have taken it in that sense, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore. She was 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 I been in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully. Ladies always do speak spitefully, observed Martin. It is the nature of womenites to be spiteful. Matthew now for the first time opened his lips. What a fool Martin is, to be always gabbling about what he does not understand. It is my privilege as a free man to gabble on whatever subject I like, responded Martin. You use it, or rather abuse it, to such an extent, rejoined the elder brother, that you prove you ought to have been a slave. A slave, a slave, that to a York, and from a York? This fellow, he added, standing up at the table and pointing across it to Matthew, this fellow forgets what every coddier in Breyerfield knows, that all born of our house have that arched in step under which water can flow, proof that there has not been a slave of the blood for three hundred years. Mount a bank, said Matthew. Lads, be silent, exclaimed Mr. York. Martin, you are a mischief-maker. There would have been no disturbance but for you. Indeed, is that correct? Did I begin, or did Matthew? Had I spoken to him when he accused me of gabbling like a fool? A presumptuous fool, repeated Matthew. Here Mrs. York commenced rocking herself, rather a portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally followed, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict, by a fit of hysterics. I don't see why I should bear insolence from Matthew York, or what right he has to use bad language to me, observed Martin. He has no right, my lad, but forgive your brother until seventy and seven times, said Mr. York, soothingly. Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse, murmured Martin, as he turned to leave the room. Where art thou going, my son? asked the father. Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult, to find this house I can find any such place. Matthew laughed very insolently. Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled through all his slight lads' 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 a moment it had been resting, said as she directed a steady gaze to Matthew. Martin is grieved, and you are glad, but I would rather be Martin than you. I dislike your nature. Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting, or at least escaping, has seen, which a sub from Mrs. York warned him was likely to come on. Rose, and putting Jesse off his knee, he kissed her and Rose, reminding them at the same time to be sure and come to the hollow in good time to-morrow afternoon. Then having taken leave of his hostess, he said to Mr. York, May I speak a word with you? and was followed by him from the room. 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 has many 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? Mr. William Farron. I know William. A write-down honest man is William. He has been out of work three months. He has a large family. We are sure they cannot live without wages. He was one of a deputation of cloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain and threaten. William did not threaten. He only asked me to give them rather more time, to make my changes more slowly. You know I cannot do that. Straightened on all sides as I am, I have nothing for it but to push on. I thought it would be idle to pull out or along with them. I sent them away after arresting a rascal amongst them whom I hoped to transport. A fellow who preaches at the chapel yonder sometimes. Not Moses Beraklav. Yes. Ah, you've arrested him? Good. And out of a scoundrel you're going to make a martyr. You've done a wise thing. I've done a right thing. While the short and long of it is, I'm determined to get fair in a place, and I reckon on you to give him one. This is cool, however, exclaimed Mr. York. What right have you to reckon on me to provide for your dismissed workmen? What do I know about your Farrens and your Williams? I've heard he's an honest man, but am I to support all the honest men in Yorkshire? You may say that would be no great charge to undertake, but great or little, I'll none of it. Come, Mr. York, what can you find for him to do? I find, you after gauge I'm not accustomed to use. I wish you 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 him some occupation on your land, Mr. York. Bob, I thought you cared nothing about our Lerdeau de Paison. I don't understand this change. I do. The fellow spoke to me nothing but truth and sense. I answered him just as roughly as I did the rest, who jabbered mere gibberish. I couldn't make distinctions there and then. His appearance told what he had gone through lately clearer than his words. But where is the use of explaining? Let him have work. Let him have it yourself if you are so very much in earnest. Strain a point. If there was a point left in my affairs to strain, I would strain it till it cracked again. But I received letters this morning, which show me pretty clearly where I stand. And it is not far off the end of the plank. My foreign market, at any rate, is gorged. If there is no change, if there dons no prospect of peace, if the orders in council are not at least suspended so as to open our way in the West, I do not know where I am to turn. I see no more light than if I were sealed in a rock, so that for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood would be to do a dishonest thing. Come, let us take a turn on the front. It is a starlight night, said Mr. York. They passed out, closing the front door after them, and side by side paced the frost-white pavement to and fro. It's all about Fahrenheit once, urged Mr. Moore. You have large fruit gardens at York Mills. He is a good gardener. Give him work there. Well, so be it. I'll send for him to-morrow, and we'll see. And now, my lad, you're concerned about the condition of your affairs. Yes, a second failure, which I may delay, but which at this moment I see no way finally to avert, would blight the name of more completely, and you were aware I had fine intentions of paying off every debt, and re-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 to live. I know, I know capital is not to be had for the asking, and if you were a married man, and had a family like me, I should think your case pretty nigh desperate, but the young and unencumbered have chances peculiar to themselves. I hear gossip now and then about your being on the eve of marriage, with this mis and that, but I suppose it is none of it true. You may well suppose that. I think I am not in a position to be dreaming of marriage. Marriage! I cannot bear the word. It sounds so silly and utopian. I have settled it decidedly that marriage and love are superfluities, intended only for the rich, who live at ease, and have no need to take thought for the tomorrow, or desperation's, the last and reckless joy of the deeply wretched, who never hoped to rise out of the slough of their utter poverty. I should not think so if I were circumstance'd as you are. I should think I could very likely get a wife with a few thousands who would suit 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, your—take pleasure in a sweet, young, fair face, as they are repelled by a grim, rugged, meager one. Soft, delicate lines and hues, please. Harsh ones 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. I could not endure her. My taste must have satisfaction, or disgust would break 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 high cheekbones, the rather wide mouth, and reddish hair? I'll never try, I tell you. This at least I will have, and you, then symmetry, yes, and what I call beauty. And poverty in a nursery full of barons, you can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother, and then bankruptcy, discredit, a lifelong struggle? Let me alone, York. 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 white tenders in that feldar of cloth. Always use such figures of speech, lad, I can understand them. And there 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 no reason why you should not profit by a good chance if it offers. Therefore wait and see. You are quite oracular, York. I think I am a bit of that line. I promise you not, and I advise you not. But I bid you keep your heart up, and be guided by circumstances. My namesake, the physician's almanac, could not speak more guardedly. In the meantime I care not about you, Robert Moore. You are nothing akin to me or mine. And whether you lose or find a fortune, it makes no difference to me. Go home now. It has stricken ten. Miss Hortense will be wondering where you are. End of Chapter 9