•h^J^^ 

 
 Brss 
 
 184.9
 
 X 
 
 'm^^-^0x>&I^ — *"
 
 c^^fnnt^^^h^r iMTej 
 
 SHIRLEY^ 
 
 ^ ^alc. 
 
 BY 
 
 CURRER BELL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JAXE EYRE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 L O X D O X : 
 
 S3IITH, ELDER AXD CO., G5, CORNHILL 
 
 1849.
 
 LONDON . 
 
 PRINTED BY STEWAKT AND MVEHAY, 
 
 OLD BAILEY.
 
 7) c^ J 
 
 
 C IS' T E N T S. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Levitigal 1 
 
 '^ CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The Waggons 22 
 
 ^ CHAPTER III. 
 ^^ Mr. Yorke -i' 
 
 j§ CHAPTER IV. 
 
 — Mr. Yorke (continued) 61 
 
 ^ CHAPTER V. 
 ^ Hollow's Cottage 79 
 
 ^.
 
 IV CONTEXTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PAGE 
 CoRIOLANLS 104 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Tii£ Curates at Tea 13,5 
 
 CHA.PTER VIII. 
 NoAK AND Moses 176 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Briarmains 203 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Old Maids 241 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 FlELDHEAD 272
 
 SHIRLEY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LEVITICAL 
 
 Of late 3'ears, an abundant shower of curates has 
 fallen upon the north of England : they lie very 
 thick on the hills ; every parish has one or more of 
 them; they are young enough to be very active, 
 and ought to be doing; a o-reat deal of crood. But 
 not of late years are we about to speak ; we are 
 going back to the beginning of this century ; late 
 yeart — present years are dusty, sun-burnt, hot, arid; 
 we will evade the noon, forget it in siesta, pass the. 
 mid-day in slumber, and dream of dawn. 
 
 If you think, from this prelude, that anything like 
 a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never 
 were more mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, 
 and poetry, and reverie ? Do you expect passion, 
 and stimulus, and melodrama? Cahn your expec- 
 tations ; reduce them to a lowly standard. Some- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 SHIRLEY. 
 
 thing real, cool, and solid, lies before you ; some- 
 thing unromantic as Monday morning, when all who 
 have work wake with the consciousness that they 
 must rise and betake themselves thereto. It is 
 not positively affirmed that you shall not have a 
 taste of the exciting, perhaps towards the middle and 
 close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first 
 dish set upon the table shall be one tliat a Catholic 
 — ay, even an Anglo-Catholic — miglit eat on Good- 
 Friday in Passion Week : it shall be cold lentiles 
 and vinegar without oil ; it shall be unleavened bread 
 with bitter herbs and no roast lamb. 
 
 Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of cu- 
 rates has fallen upon the north of England ; but in 
 eighteen-hundred-eleven-twelve that affluent rain had 
 not descended : curates were scarce then : there was 
 no Pastoral Aid — no Additional Curates' Society to 
 stretch a helping hand to worn-out old rectors and 
 incumbents, and give them the wherewithal to pay a 
 vigorous young colleague from Oxford or Cambridge. 
 The present successors of the apostles, disciples of 
 Dr. Pusey and tools of the Propaganda, av ere at that 
 time being hatched under cradle-blankets, or under- 
 going regeneration by nursery-baptism in wash-hand- 
 basins. You could not have guessed by looking at 
 any one of them that the Italian-ironed double frills 
 of its net cap surrounded the brows of a pre-ordained, 
 specially-sanctified successor of St. Paul, St. Peter, 
 or St. John ; nor could you have foreseen in the 
 folds of its long night-gown the white surplice in
 
 ^ 
 
 LEVITICAL. 6 
 
 which it was hereafter cruelly to exercise the souls 
 of its parisliioners, and straugely to nonplus its old- 
 fashioned vicar by flourishing aloft in a pulpit the 
 shirt-like raiment which had never before waved 
 higher than the reading-desk. 
 
 Yet even in those days of scarcity there were 
 curates : the precious plant was rare, but it might be 
 found. A certain favoured district in the West 
 Ridino; of Yorkshire could boast three rods of Aaron 
 blossoming within a circuit of twenty miles. You 
 shall see them, reader. Step into this neat garden- 
 house on the skirts of Whinbmy, walk forward into 
 the little parlour — there they are at dinner. Allow 
 me to introduce them to you : — ^Ir. Donne, curate 
 of Whinbury; Mr. Malone, ciu-ate of Briarfield; 
 jMr. Sweeting, curate of Nunnely. These are ]Mr. 
 Donne's lodgings, being the habitation of one John 
 Gale, a small clothier. jVIr. Donne has kindly invited 
 his brethren to regale vvdth him. You and I will join 
 the party, see what is to be seen, and hear what is 
 to be heard. At present, however, they are only 
 eating ; and while they eat we will talk aside. 
 
 These gentlemen are in the bloom of youth ; they 
 possess all the activity of that interesting age — an 
 activity which their moping old vicars would fain 
 turn into the channel of their pastoral duties, often 
 expressing a wish to see it expended in a diligent 
 superintendence of the schools, and in frequent visit.-' 
 to the sick of their respective parishes. But the 
 youthful Levites feel this to be dull work; they 
 
 B 2
 
 4 SHIRLEY. 
 
 prefer lavishing tlieir energies on a course of pro- 
 ceeding which — though to other eyes it appear more 
 hea\y with ennui, more cursed with monotony, than 
 the toil of the weaver at his loom, seems to yield 
 them an unfailing supply of enjoyment and occu- 
 pation. 
 
 I allude to a rusliing backwards and forwards, 
 amongst themselves, to and from their respective 
 lodgings ; not a round — but a triangle of visits, 
 which they keep up all the year tlu^ough, in winter, 
 spring, sununer, and autumn. Season and weather 
 make no difference ; with unintelligible zeal they 
 dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire and dust, to 
 go and dine, or drink tea, or sup with each other. 
 l^Tiat attracts them, it would be difficult to say. It 
 is not friendship ; for whenever they meet they 
 quarrel. It is not religion ; the thing is never 
 named amongst them : theology they may discuss 
 occasionally, but piety — never. It is not the love 
 of eating^ and drinkino; ; each mi^'ht have as ffood a 
 joint and pudding, tea as potent, and toast as succu- 
 lent, at his own lodgings, as is served to him at his 
 brother's. Mrs. Gale, ]\Irs. Hogg, and Mrs. Wiipp 
 — ^their respective landladies — affirm that "it is just 
 for nought else but to give folk trouble." By "folk" 
 the good ladies of course mean themselves, for indeed 
 they are kept in a continual " fry " by this system of 
 mutual invasion. 
 
 Mr. Donne and*his guests, as I have said, are at 
 dinner ; ^Irs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of
 
 LEVITICAL. 5 
 
 the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers 
 that the privilege of inviting a friend to a meii^ 
 occasionally, without additional charge (a privilege 
 included in the terms on which she lets her lodgings), 
 has been quite sufficiently exercised of late. The 
 present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Mon- 
 day Mr. Malone, the curate of Briarfield, came to 
 breakfast and stayed dinner; on Tuesday Mr. Ma- 
 lone and Mr. Sweeting, of Nunnely, came to tea, 
 remained to supper, occupied the spare bed, and 
 favoured her with their company to breakfast on 
 Wednesday morning : novf, on Thursday, they are 
 both here at dinner ; and she is ahnost certain they 
 will stay all night. " C'en est trop," she would say, 
 if she could speak French. 
 
 Mr. Sweetinsj is mincino; the slice of roast beef on 
 his plate, and complaining that it is very tough ; 
 Mr. Donne says the beer is flat. Ay ! that is the 
 worst of it. If they would only be civil, jNIrs. Gale 
 wouldn't mind it so much ; if they would only seem 
 satisfied with what they get, she wouldn't care, but 
 "these young parsons is so high and so scornful, 
 they set everybody beneath their fit; they treat 
 her with less than civility, just because she doesn't 
 keep a servant, but does the work of the house her- 
 self, as her mother did afore her: then they are 
 always speaking against Yorkshire ways and York- 
 shire folk," and by that very token Mrs. Gale does 
 not believe one of them to be a real gentleman, or 
 come of gentle kin. " The old parsons is worth the
 
 6 SHIRLEY. 
 
 whole lump of college lads ; they know what be- 
 langs good manners, and is kind to high and low." 
 
 " More bread I" cries Mr. Malone, in a tone 
 which, though prolonged but to utter two syllables, 
 proclaims liim at once a native of the land of sham- 
 rocks and potatoes. INIrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone 
 more than either of the other two, but she fears him 
 also, for he is a tall, strongly-built personage, with 
 real Irish legs and arms, and a face as genuinely 
 national ; not the Milesian face — not Daniel O'Con- 
 nel's style, but the high-featured, North- American- 
 Indian sort of visage, which belongs to a certain 
 class of the Irish gentiy, and has a petrified and 
 proud look, better suited to the owner of an estate 
 of slaves, than to the landlord of a free peasantry. 
 Mr. Malone's father termed himself a gentleman : he 
 was poor and in debt, and besottedly arrogant ; and 
 liis son was like him. 
 
 Mrs. Gale offered the loaf. 
 
 " Cut it, woman," said her guest ; and the " wo- 
 man" cut it accordingly. Had she followed her 
 inclinations, she would have cut the parson also ; 
 her Yorksliire soul revolted absolutely from his man- 
 ner of command. 
 
 The curates had good appetites, and though the 
 beef was " tough," they ate a great deal of it. They 
 swallowed, too, a tolerable allowance of the " flat 
 beer," while a dish of Yorkshire pudding, and two 
 tureens of vegetables, disappeared like leaves before 
 locusts. The cheese, too, received distinguished
 
 LEYITIC.VL. 7 
 
 marks of their attention ; and a '* spice-cake," which 
 followed by way of dessert, vanished hke a vision, 
 and wa5 no more found. Its elegy was chanted in 
 the kitchen by Abraham, ]Mi's. Gale's son and heir, 
 a youth of six summers ; he had reckoned upon the 
 reversion thereof, and when his mother brought 
 down the empty platter, he lifted up his voice and 
 wept sore. 
 
 The cm-ates, meantime, sat and sipped then- wine, 
 a hquor of unpretending vintage, moderately en- 
 joyed. !Mr. Malone, indeed, would much rather have 
 had whisky ; but ]Mr. Donne, being an English- 
 man, did not keep the beverage. While they sipped, 
 they argued, not on poHtics, nor on philosophy, nor 
 on literature ; these topics were now as ever totally 
 without interest for them; not even on theology, 
 practical or doctrinal ; but on minute points of ec- 
 clesiastical discipHne, frivoHties which seemed empty 
 as bubbles to all save themselves. Mr. Malone, who 
 contrived to secure two glasses of wine, when his 
 brethren contented themselves with one, waxed by 
 degrees hilarious after his fashion ; that is, he grew 
 a httle insolent, said rude things in a hectoring tone, 
 and laughed clamorously at his own brilhancy. 
 
 Each of his companions became in turn his butt. 
 ]MaIone had a stock of jokes at theu' ser^dce, which 
 he was accustomed to serve out regularly on con- 
 vivial occasions Hke the present, seldom varying his 
 wit ; for which, indeed, there was no necessity^ as he - 
 never appeared to consider himseh^ monotonous, and
 
 8 SHIRLEY. 
 
 did not at all care what others thought. ]\Ir. Donne, 
 he favoured with liints about his extreme meagre- 
 ness, allusions to his turned-up nose, cutting sarcasms 
 on a certain threadbare chocolate surtout, which that 
 gentleman was accustomed to sport whenever it 
 rained, or seemed likely to rain, and criticisms on 
 a choice set of cockney phrases, and modes of pro- 
 nunciation, Mr. Donne's own property, and certainly 
 deserving of remark for the elegance and finish they 
 communicated to his style. 
 
 Mr. Sweeting was bantered about his stature, he 
 was a little man, a mere boy in height and breadth 
 compared with the athletic ^Malone, rallied on his 
 musical accomphshments, he played the flute and 
 sang hymns like a seraph (some young ladies of his 
 parish thought), sneered at as "the lady's pet," teased 
 about his mama and sisters, for whom poor Mr. 
 Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of whom 
 he was foolish enough now and then to speak in the 
 presence of the priestly Paddy, from whose anatomy 
 the bowels of natural affection had somehow been 
 omitted. 
 
 The victims met these attacks each in his own 
 way, ^Ir. Donne with a stilted self-complacency, and 
 half-sullen phlegm, the sole props of his otherwise 
 somewhat rickety dignity ; ]Mr. Sweeting, with the 
 indifference of a light, easy disposition, which never 
 professed to have any dignity to maintain. 
 
 When ^lalone's raillery became rather too offen- 
 sive, which it soon did, they joined in an attemj^t to
 
 LEVITICAL. 
 
 turn the tables on him^ by asking him how many- 
 boys had shouted '• Irish Peter I " after him, as he 
 came along the road that day (Malone's name was 
 Peter — the Kev. Peter Augustus Malone): requesting 
 to be informed vv'hether it was the mode in Ireland 
 for clergymen to cany loaded pistols in their pockets, 
 and a shillelagh in their hands, when they made pas- 
 toral ^-isits : inquiring the signification of such words, 
 as vele, firrum, heUum, storrum fso ^Ir. ]Malone in- 
 variably pronoimced veil, firm, hehn, storm,) and 
 employing such other methods of retaliation as the 
 innate refinement of theii' minds suggested. 
 
 This, of course, would not do. Malone, being 
 neither good-natured nor phlegmatic, was presently 
 in a towering passion. He vociferated, gesticulated ; 
 Donne and Sweeting laughed. He reviled them as 
 Saxons and snobs at the very top pitch of his liigh 
 Celtic voice ; they taunted him with being the native 
 of "a conquered land. He menaced rebellion in the 
 name of his " counthiy,*' vented bitter hatred against 
 English rule ; they spoke of rags, beggary, and pes- 
 tilence. The little parlour was in an uproar ; you 
 would have thought a duel must foUow such virulent 
 abuse ; it seemed a wonder that ]\Ir. and ]\Irs. Gale 
 did not take alarm at the noise, and send for a con- 
 stable to keep the peace. But they were accustomed 
 to such demonstrations ; they well knew that the 
 curates never dined or took tea together without a 
 little exercise of the sort, and were quite easy as to 
 consequences ; knowing that these clerical quarrels
 
 10 SHIRLEY. 
 
 were as harmless as they were noisy ; that they re- 
 sulted in nothing ; and that^ on whatever terms the 
 curates might part to-night, they would be sure to 
 meet the best friends in the world to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 As the worthy pair were sitting by their kitchen 
 fire, hstening to the repeated and sonorous contact of 
 Malone's fist with the mahogany plane of the parlour 
 table, and to the consequent start and jingle of 
 decanters and glasses following each assault, to the 
 mocking laughter of the allied Enghsh disputants, 
 and the stuttering declamation of the isolated Hiber- 
 nian, — as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the 
 outer door-step, and the knocker quivered to a sharp 
 appeal. 
 
 Mr. Gale went and opened. 
 
 *' Whom have you up-stairs in the parlour ? " 
 asked a voice; a rather remarkable voice, nasal in 
 tone, abrupt in utterance. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Helstone, is it you, su-? I could 
 hardly see you for the darkness ; it is so soon dark 
 now. Will you walk in, sir?" 
 
 " I want to know first whetlier it is worth my 
 while walking in. Whom have you up-stairs ? " 
 
 " The cui'ates, sir." 
 
 "What! all of them?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." s» ,?- 
 
 "Been dining here?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " That will do."
 
 LEVITICAL. 11 
 
 With these words a person entered, — a middle- 
 aged man, in black. He walked straight across the 
 kitchen to an inner door, opened it, inclined liis head 
 forward, and stood listening. There was something 
 to listen to, for the noise above was just then louder 
 than ever. 
 
 "Hey!" he ejaculated to himself; then, turning 
 to Mr. Gale, — " Have you often this sort of work ?" 
 
 jNIr. Gale had been a churchwarden, and was 
 indulgent to the clergy. 
 
 " They're young, you know, sir, — they're young," 
 said he, deprecatingly. 
 
 "Young! They want caning. Bad boys! — bad 
 boys ! and if you vrere a Dissenter, John Gale, instead 
 of being a good Churchman, they 'd do the like ; — 
 they 'd expose themselves : but I '11 " 
 
 By way of finish to this sentence, he passed 
 through the inner door, drew it after him, and 
 mounted the stair. Again he listened a few minutes 
 when he arrived at the upper room. INIaking entrance 
 without warning, he stood before the curates. 
 
 And they were silent ; they were transfixed ; and 
 so was the invader. He, — a personage short of 
 stature, but straight of port, and bearing on broad 
 shoulders a hawk's head, beak, and eye, the whole 
 sm-mounted by a Eheoboam, or shovel-hat, which he 
 did not seem to think it necessary to lift or remove 
 before the presence in which he then stood, — lie 
 folded his arms on his chest and surveyed his young 
 friends — if friends they were— much at his leisure.
 
 12 SHIRLEY. 
 
 "What!" he began, delivering his words in a 
 voice no longer nasal, but deep, — more than deep, — 
 a voice made purposely hollow and cavernous ; 
 " What ! has the miracle of Pentecost been renewed ? 
 Have the cloven tongues come down again ? Where 
 are they? The sound filled the whole house just 
 now. I heard the seventeen lancruaGces in full action : 
 — Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers 
 in Mesopotamia, and in Jud^a, and Cappadocia, in 
 Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in 
 Egypt and in the parts of Lybia about Cyrene, 
 strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes 
 and Arabians ; — every one of these must have had 
 its representative in this room two minutes since." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone," began Mr. 
 Donne; "take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of 
 wine ? " 
 
 His civilities received no answer: the Mcon in 
 the black coat proceeded : — 
 
 " What do I talk about the Jiift of tonofues ? 
 Gift, indeed ! I mistook the chapter, and book, and 
 testament: — Gospel for law. Acts for Genesis, the 
 city of Jerusalem for the plain of Shinar. It was no 
 gift, but the confusion of tongues which has gabbled 
 me deaf as a post. Yoif, apostles ? What ! — you 
 three ? Certainly not : — three presumptuous Baby- 
 lonish masons, — neither more nor less ! " 
 
 " I assure you, sir, we were only having a little 
 chat together over a glass of wine, after a friendly 
 dinner : — settlinsi: the Dissenters."
 
 LEVITICAL. 13 
 
 '^ Oh ! settKng the Dissenters — were you ? AYas 
 Malone settling the Dissenters ? It sounded to me 
 much more like settling his co-apostles. You were 
 quarrelHng together ; making almost as much noise 
 — you three alone — as Moses Barraclough, the 
 preaching tailor, and all his hearers, are making in 
 the methodist chapel down yonder, where they are in 
 the thick of a revival. I know whose fault it is — it 
 is yours, Malone." 
 
 "Mne! sir?" 
 
 " Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting were quiet 
 before you came, and would be quiet if you were 
 gone. I wish when you crossed the Channel, you 
 had left your Irish habits behind you. Dublin 
 student ways won't do here : the proceedings which 
 might pass unnoticed in a wild bog and mountain 
 district in Connaught will, in a decent English 
 parish, bring disgrace on those who indulge in them, 
 and, what is far worse, on the sacred institution of 
 which they are merely the humble appendages." 
 
 There was a certain dignity in the little elderly 
 gentleman's manner of rebuking these youths ; 
 though it was not, perhaps, quite the dignity most 
 appropriate to the occasion. Mr. Helstone — stand- 
 inor straischt as a ramrod — lookins; keen as a kite, 
 presented, despite his clerical hat, black coat, and 
 gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer chiding his 
 subalterns, than of a venerable priest exhorting his 
 sons in the faith. Gospel mildness — apostolic 
 benignity, never seemed to have breathed their
 
 14 SHIRLEY. 
 
 influence over that keen brown visage ; but firmness 
 had fixed the features, and sagacity had carved her 
 own lines about them. 
 
 " I met Supplehough," he continued, " plodding 
 through the mud this wet night, going to preach at 
 !Milldean composition shop. As I told you, I heard 
 Barraclough bellowing in the midst of a conventicle 
 like a possessed bull; and I find you^ gentlemen, 
 tarrying over your half pint of muddy port-wine, 
 and scolding like angry old women. No wonder 
 Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult con- 
 verts in a day — which he did a fortnight since ; no 
 wonder Barraclough, scamp and hypocrite as he is, 
 should attract all the weaver-girls, in their flowers 
 and ribbons, to witness how much harder are his 
 knuckles than the wooden brim of his tub ; as little 
 wonder that you^ when you are left to yourselves, 
 without your rectors — myself, and Hall, and Boultby 
 — to back you, should too often perform the holy 
 service of our church to bare walls, and read your 
 bit of a dry discourse to the clerk, and the organist, 
 and the beadle. But enough of the subject : I came 
 to see Malone — I have an errand unto thee, O cap- 
 tain!" 
 
 " What is it ? " inquired ^lalone discontentedly ; 
 " there can be no funeral to take at this time of 
 day." 
 
 " Have you any arms about you ? " 
 
 " Arms, sir ? — yes, and legs ; " and he advanced 
 the mighty members.
 
 LEVITICAL. 15 
 
 " Bah ! weapons, I mean." 
 
 " I have the pistols you gave me yourself: I never 
 part with them : I lay them ready cocked on a chair 
 by my bedside at night. I have my blackthorn." 
 
 " Very good. Will you go to Hollow 's-mill ? " 
 
 " What is stirring at Hollo w's-mill ? " 
 
 " Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will be : but Moore 
 is alone there. He has sent aU the workmen he can 
 trust to Stnbro'; there are only two women left 
 about the place : it would be a nice opportunity for 
 any of his weU-wishers to pay him a visit, if they 
 knew how straight the path was made before them." 
 
 " I am none of his weU-wishers, sir : I don't care 
 for him." 
 
 " Soh! Malone, you are afraid?" 
 
 *^ You know me better than that. If I really 
 thought there was a chance of a row, I woidd go : 
 but Moore is a strange, shy man, whom I never pre- 
 tend to understand ; and, for the sake of his sweet 
 company only, I would not stir a step." 
 
 " But there is a chance of a row, if a positive 
 riot does not take place — of which, indeed, I see no 
 signs; yet it is unlikely this night wiU pass quite 
 tranquilly. You know ]Moore has resolved to have 
 the new macliinery, and he expects two waggon 
 loads of frames and shears from Stilbro' this evening. 
 Scott, the overlooker, and a few picked men, are 
 gone to fetch them." 
 
 " They will luring them in safely and quietly 
 enough, sir."
 
 16 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Moore says so, and affirms he wants nobody : 
 some one, however, he must have, if it were only to 
 bear evidence in case anything should happen. I 
 call Mm very careless. He sits in the counting- 
 house with the shutters unclosed ; he goes out here 
 and there after dark, wanders right up the hollow, 
 down Fieldhead-lane, among the plantations, just as 
 if he were the darlins^ of the neighbourhood, or — 
 being, as he is, its detestation — bore a 'charmed 
 life ' as they say in tale-books. He takes no warn- 
 ing from the fate of Pearson, nor from that of 
 Armitage — shot one in his own house and the other 
 on the moor." 
 
 " But he should take warning, sir, and use pre- 
 cautions too," interposed ^ir. Sweeting ; " and I 
 think he would, if he heard what I heard the other 
 day." 
 
 " What did you here, Da\y ?" 
 
 " You know Mike Hartley, su'?" 
 
 " The Antinomian weaver? Yes." 
 
 " "\Mien Mike has been drinkins; for a few weeks 
 together, he generally winds up by a visit to 
 iNunnely vicarage, to tell Mr. Hall a piece of his 
 mind about his sermons, to denounce the horrible 
 tendency of his doctrine of works, and warn him 
 that he and all his hearers are sitting in outer dark- 
 ness." 
 
 " Well — that has nothing to do with Moore." 
 
 '* Besides being an Antinomian, he is a violent 
 Jacobin and leveller, sir."
 
 LEYITICAL. 17 
 
 " I know. ^\Tien he is very drunk, his mind is 
 always running on regicide. j\Iike is not unac- 
 quainted with history, and it is rich to hear him 
 going over the hst of tyrants of whom, as he says, 
 ' the revenger of blood has obtained satisfaction.' 
 The fellow exults strangely in mm'der done on 
 crowned heads, or on any head for political reasons. 
 I have already heard it hinted that he seems to have 
 a queer hankering after Moore : is that what you 
 allude to, Sweeting ? " 
 
 ^^ You use the proper term, sir. Mr. Hall thinks 
 he has no personal hatred of Moore ; he says he even 
 likes to talk to him, and run after him, but he has a 
 liankering that he should be made an example of. 
 He was extolling him to i\Ir. Hall the other day as 
 the mill-owner with the most brains in Yorkshire, 
 and for that reason he affirms he should be chosen as 
 a sacrifice, an oblation of a sweet savom\ Is ]Mike 
 Hartley in his right mind, do you tliink, sir ? " in- 
 quired Sweeting, simply. 
 
 *^ Can't tell, Davy ; he may be crazed or he may 
 be only crafty — or, perhaps, a little of both." 
 
 " He talks of seeing visions, sir." 
 
 " Ay I He is a very Ezekiel or Daniel for 
 visions. He came just when I was going to bed, 
 last Friday night, to describe one that had been 
 revealed to him in Xunnely Park that very after- 
 noon." 
 
 " Tell it, sii' — what was it ?" urged Sweeting. 
 
 '' Davy, thou hast an enormous organ of "Wonder 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 SHIRLEY. 
 
 in thy cranium ; Malone, you see, has none ; neither 
 murders nor visions interest him: see what a big, 
 vacant Saph, he looks at this moment." 
 
 « Saph ! ^Yho was Saph, sir ?" 
 
 " I thought you would not know : you may find it 
 out : it is biblical. I know nothing more of him 
 than his name and race ; but from a boy upwards, I 
 have always attached a personality to Saph. Depend 
 on it he was honest, heavy, and luckless ; he met his 
 end at Gob, by the hand of Sibbechai." 
 
 " But the vision, sir ?" 
 
 " Davy, thou shalt hear. Donne is biting his 
 nails, and Malone yawning ; so I will tell it but to 
 thee. Mike is out of work, like many others, unfor- 
 tunately ; INIr. Grame, Sir Philip Nunnely's steward, 
 gave him a job about the priory : according to liis 
 account, he was busy hedging rather late in the 
 afternoon, but before dark, when he heard what he 
 thought was a band at a distance, bugles, fifes, and 
 the sound of a trumpet ; it came from the forest, and 
 be wondered that there should be music there. He 
 looked up : all amongst the trees he saw moving 
 objects, red, like poppies, or white, like May-blos- 
 som ; the wood was full of them ; they poured out 
 and filled the park. He then perceived they were 
 soldiers — thousands and tens of thousands, but they 
 made no more noise than a swarm of midges 
 on a summer evening. They formed in order, he 
 affirmed, and marched, regiment after regiment, 
 across the park ; he followed them to Kimnely
 
 LEVITICAL. IV 
 
 Common ; the music still played soft and distant. 
 On the common he watched them go through a 
 number of evolutions, a man clothed in scarlet stood 
 in the centre and directed them ; they extended, he 
 declared, over fifty acres ; they were in sight half an 
 hour; then they marched away quite silently — 
 the whole time he heard neither voice nor tread — 
 nothing but the faint music playing a solemn 
 march." 
 
 " ^Hiere did they go, sir ? " 
 
 " Towards Briarfield ; Mike followed them ; they 
 seemed passing Fieldliead, when a column of smoke, 
 such as might be vomited by a park of artillery, 
 spread noiseless over the fields, the road, the com- 
 mon, and rolled, he said, blue and dim to his very 
 feet. As it cleared away he looked again for the 
 soldiers, but they were vanished ; he saw them no 
 more. Mike, like a wise Daniel as he is, not only 
 rehearsed the vision, but gave the interpretation 
 thereof: it signifies, he intimated, bloodshed and 
 civil conflict." 
 
 " Do you credit it, sir ? " asked Sweeting. 
 " Do you, Davy ? But come, jNIalone, why are 
 you not off?" 
 
 " I am rather surprised, sir, you did not stay with 
 Moore yourself; you like tliis kind of thing." 
 
 " So I should have done, had I not unfortunately 
 happened to engage Boultby to sup with me on 
 his way home from the Bible Society meeting at 
 Nunnely. I promised to send you as my substi- 
 
 c 2
 
 20 SHIRLEY. 
 
 tute, for wliiph, by-tlie-by, he did not thank me ; 
 he would much rather have had me than you, Peter. 
 Should there be any real need of help, I shall join 
 you; the mill-bell will give warning. Meantime 
 go, unless (turning suddenly to Messrs. Sweeting 
 and Donne), — unless Da\y Sweeting or Joseph 
 Donne prefers going. What do you say, gentle- 
 men? The commission is an honourable one, not 
 without the seasoning of a little real peril, for the 
 country is in a queer state, as you all know, and 
 Moore and his mill, and his machinery, are held in 
 sufficient odium. There are chivaMc sentiments, 
 there is high-beating courage under those waistcoats 
 of yom's, I doubt not. Perhaps I am too partial to 
 my favourite, Peter ; little David shall be the cham- 
 pion or spotless Joseph. Malone, you are but a 
 great floundering Saul after all, good only to lend 
 your armom-: out with your fire-arms, fetch your 
 shillelagh ; it is there — in the corner." 
 
 With a significant grin, Malone produced liis pis- 
 tols, offering one to each of his brethren: they 
 were not readily seized on. With graceful modesty, 
 each gentleman retired a step from the presented 
 weapon. 
 
 '' I never touch them : I never did touch anything 
 of the kind," said ]\Ir. Donne. 
 
 " I am ahnost a stranger to Mr. Moore," mur- 
 mured SweetiniT. 
 
 " If you never touched a pistol, tiy the feel of it 
 now, great satrap of Egypt. As to the little min-
 
 LEYITICAL. 21 
 
 strel, he probalDly prefers encountering the Phili- 
 stines with no other weapon than his flute. Get 
 their hats, Peter; they'll both of 'em go." 
 
 " i^o, sir ; no, ^Ir. Helstone : my mother wouldn't 
 like it," pleaded Sweeting. 
 
 " And I make it a ride never to get mixed up in 
 affairs of the kind," observed Donne. 
 
 Helstone smiled sardonically; Malone laughed a 
 horse-laugh. He then replaced his arms, took his 
 hat and cudgel, and saying that " he never felt more 
 in tune for a shindy in his life, and that he wished 
 a score of greasy cloth-dressers might beat up 
 Moore's quarters that night," he made his exit, 
 clearing the stairs at a stride or two, and making 
 the house shake with the bang of the front-door 
 behind him.
 
 22 SHIRLEY. 
 
 CHAPTEK 11. 
 
 THE WAGGOXS. 
 
 The evening was pitch-dark : star and moon were 
 quenched in gray rain-clouds — gray they would have 
 been by day ; by night they looked sable. Malone 
 was not a man given to close observation of Nature ; 
 her changes passed, for the most part, unnoticed by 
 him ; he could walk miles on the most varying April 
 day, and never see the beautiful dallying of earth 
 and heaven, never mark when a sunbeam kissed 
 the hill-tops, making them smile clear in green light, 
 or when a shower wept over them, hiding then- crests 
 with the low -hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. 
 He did not, therefore, care to contrast the sky as it 
 now appeared — a muffled, streaming vault, all black, 
 save where, towards the east, the furnaces of Stilbro 
 iron-works threw a tremulous lurid shimmer on the 
 horizon — with the same sky on an unclouded frosty 
 night. He did not trouble himself to ask where the 
 constellations and the planets were gone, or to regret 
 the "black-blue" serenity of the air-ocean which 
 those white islets stud, and wdiich another ocean, of
 
 THE WAGGOXS. 23 
 
 heavier and denser element, now rolled below and 
 concealed. He just doggedly pursued his way, lean- 
 ing a little forward as he walked, and wearing his 
 hat on the back of his head, as his Irish manner was. 
 " Tramp, tramp," he went along the causeway, where 
 the road boasted the privilege of such an accommo- 
 dation ; " splash, splash," through the mire-filled 
 cart-ruts, where the flags were exchanged for soft 
 mud. He looked but for certain landmarks, the 
 spu'e of Briarfield church ; further on, the lights of 
 Ked House. This was an inn ; and when he reached 
 it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, 
 a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revellers 
 on an oaken settle had nearly dra wn aside the ciurate 
 Irom his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler 
 of whisky-and-wat er : in a strange place, he would 
 instantly have realized the dream ; but the company 
 assembled in that kitchen were Mr. Helstone's own 
 parishioners ; they all knew him. He sighed, and 
 passed on. 
 
 The liigh road was now to be c[uitted, as the 
 remainino; distance to HoUow's-mill misfht be con- 
 siderably reduced by a short cut across fields. These 
 fields were level and monotonous : Malone took a 
 direct course through them, jumping hedge and wall. 
 He passed but one building here, and that seemed 
 large and hall-like, though iiTegular : you coidd see a 
 high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then 
 a tliick, lofty stack of chimneys: there were some 
 trees behind it. It was dark ; not a candle shone
 
 24 SHIRLEY. 
 
 from any window ; it was absolutely still : the rain 
 running from the eaves, and the rather wild, but 
 very low whistle of the wind round the chimneys 
 and through the boughs, were the sole sounds in its 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, de- 
 clined in a rapid descent : evidently a vale lay below, 
 through which you could hear the water run. One 
 light glimmered in the depth: for that beacon 
 Malone steered. 
 
 He came to a little white house — you could see it 
 was white even through this dense darkness — and 
 knocked at the door. A fresh-faced servant opened 
 it ; by the candle she held was revealed a narrow 
 passage, terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors 
 covered with crimson baize, a strip of crimson carpet 
 down the steps, contrasted with light-coloured walls, 
 and white floor, made the little interior look clean 
 and fresh. 
 
 " Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, but he is not in." 
 
 « Not in ! Where is he then ?" 
 
 " At the mill — in the counting-house." 
 
 Here one of the crimson doors opened. 
 
 " Are the waggons come, Sarah ?" asked a female 
 voice, and a female head at the same time was ap- 
 parent. It might not be the head of a goddess — 
 indeed a screw of curl-paper on each side the temples 
 quite forbade that supposition — but neither was it 
 the head of a Gorgon ; yet Malone seemed to take it
 
 THE WAGGONS. 25 
 
 in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bash- 
 fully back into the rain at the view thereof; and 
 saying, " I '11 go to him," hurried in seeming trepida- 
 tion down a short lane, across an obscure yard, 
 towards a huge black mill. 
 
 The work-hours were over; the "hands" were 
 gone ; the machinery was at rest ; the mill shut up. 
 Malone walked round it; somewhere in its great 
 sooty flank he found another chink of light; he 
 knocked at another door, using for the purpose the 
 thick end of his shillelagh, with which he beat a 
 rousing tattoo. A key turned ; the door imclosed. 
 
 " Is it Joe Scott ? What news of the waggons, 
 Joe?" 
 
 " No, — it 's myself. Mi\ Helstone would send me." 
 " Oh I Mr. ]Malone." The voice in uttering this 
 name had the slightest possible cadence of disap- 
 pointment. After a moment's pause, it continued, 
 politely, but a little formally : — 
 
 "I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret 
 extremely Mr. Helstone should have thought it 
 necessary to trouble you so far ; there was no neces- 
 sity; — I told him so, — and on such a night — but 
 walk forwards." 
 
 Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistin- 
 guishable, Malone followed the speaker into a light - 
 and bright room within; yeiy light and bright 
 indeed it seemed to eyes which for the last hour had 
 been striving to penetrate the double darkness of 
 night and fog ; but except for its excellent fire, and
 
 26 SHIRLEY. 
 
 for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustre burning 
 on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded 
 floor was carpetless ; the three or four stiiF-backed 
 green-painted chairs seemed once to have furnished 
 the kitchen of some farm-house ; a desk of strong, 
 solid formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed 
 sheets on the stone-coloured walls, bearing plans for 
 building, for gardening, designs of machinery, &c., 
 completed the furniture of the place. 
 
 Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone, who, 
 when he had removed and hung up his wet surtout 
 and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to 
 the hearth, and set his knees almost within the bars 
 of the red grate. 
 
 " Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore, 
 and all snug to yom'self." 
 
 " Yes ; but my sister would be glad to see you, if 
 you would prefer stepping into the house." 
 
 '• Oh, no ! the ladies are best alone. I never was 
 a lady's man. You don't mistake me for my friend 
 Sweeting, do you, Mr. Moore ? " 
 
 "Sweeting I — which of them is that? The 
 gentleman in the chocolate over-coat, or the little 
 gentleman?" 
 
 " The little one ; — he of Xunnely ; — the cavalier 
 of the ]\iisses Sykes, w^ith the whole six of whom he 
 Is in love, ha I ha I " 
 
 " Better be generally in love with all than specially 
 with one, I should think, in that quarter." 
 
 " But he is specially in love with one besides, for
 
 THE WAGGOXS. 27 
 
 when I and Donne urged him to make a choice 
 amongst the fair heyj, he named — which do you 
 think?" 
 
 With a queer, quiet smile, Mr. Moore replied, 
 '' Dora, of coui'se, or Harriet." 
 
 "Ha! ha I you've an excellent guess; but ^Yhat 
 made you hit on those two ? " 
 
 " Because they are the tallest, the handsomest ; 
 and Dora, at least, is the stoutest; and as your 
 friend, Mr. Sweeting, is but a little, slight figure, I 
 concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such 
 cases, he preferred his contrast." 
 
 " You are right ; Dora it is ; but he has no chance, 
 has he, Moore?" 
 
 "What has ]Mr. Sweeting, besides his curacy?" 
 
 This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly ; 
 he laughed for full three minutes before he an- 
 swered it. 
 
 "' What has Sweeting ? Why David has his harp, 
 or flute, which comes to the same thing. He has a 
 sort of pinchbeck watch ; ditto, ring ; ditto, eye- 
 glass : that 's what he has." 
 
 " How woidd he propose to keep Miss Sykes 
 in gowns only ? " 
 
 "Ha! ha! Excellent! Ill ask him that next 
 time I see him. I "11 roast him for his presumption ; 
 but no doubt he expects old Clu'istopher Sykes 
 would do something handsome. He is rich, is he 
 not ? They live in a large house." 
 
 " Sykes carries on an extensive concern."
 
 28 SHIRLET. 
 
 " Therefore he must be wealthy, eh?" 
 
 " Therefore he must have plenty to do with his 
 wealth : and in these times would be about as likely 
 to think of drawing money from the business to give 
 dowries to his daughters, as I should be to dream of 
 pulling down the cottage there, and constructing on 
 its ruins a house as large as Fieldhead." 
 
 " Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other 
 day?" 
 
 " ]N^o : perhaps that I was about to effect some 
 such change. Your Briarfield gossips are capable of 
 saying that or sillier things." 
 
 '^ That you were going to take Fieldhead on a 
 lease — I thought it looked a dismal place, by-the-by, 
 to-night, as I passed it — and that it was your inten- 
 tion to settle a Miss Sykes there as mistress ; to be 
 married, in short, ha I ha! Xow, which is it? Dora 
 — I am sure ; you said she was the handsomest." 
 
 " I wonder how often it has been settled that I 
 was to be married since I came to Briarfield ! They 
 have assigned me every marriageable single woman 
 by turns in the district. Now it was the two Misses 
 Wynns — first the dark, then the light one. Now the 
 red-haired Miss Armitage, then the mature Ann 
 Pearson ; at present you throw on my shoulders all 
 the tribe of the Misses Sykes. On what grounds this 
 gossip rests, God knows. I visit nowhere — I seek 
 female society about as assiduously as you do, Mr. 
 Malone ; if ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to give 
 Sykes or Pearson a call in their counting-house, where
 
 THE WAGGOXS. 29 
 
 our discussions run on other topics than matrimony, 
 and our thoughts are occupied with other things 
 than courtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth 
 we can't sell, the hands we can't employ, the mills 
 we can 't run, the perverse course of events generally, 
 which we cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty 
 well at present, to the tolerably complete exclusion 
 of such figments as love-making, &c." 
 
 '' I go along with you completely, Moore. If 
 there is one notion I hate more than another, it is 
 that of marriage ; I mean marriao;e in the vuls^ar weak 
 sense, as a mere matter of sentiment ; two beggarly 
 fools agreeing to unite their indigence by some fan- 
 tastic tie of feehng — humbug ! But an advantageous 
 connection, such as can be formed in consonance with 
 dignity of views, and permanency of solid interests, 
 is not so bad — eh ?" 
 
 ^^No," responded Moore, in an absent manner; 
 the subject seemed to have no interest for him : he 
 did not pursue it. After sitting for some time 
 gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he sud- 
 denly turned his head. 
 
 " Hark !" said he : " did you hear wheels ?" 
 
 Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and 
 listened. He soon closed it. " It is only the sound 
 of the wind rising," he remarked, " and the rivulet 
 a little swollen, rushing down the hollow. I ex- 
 pected those waggons at six ; it is near nine now." 
 
 " Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up 
 of this new machinery will bring you into danger ? "
 
 30 SHIRLEY. 
 
 inquired ]Malone. " Helstone seems to tliink it 
 wilL" 
 
 " I only wish the macliines — the frames were safe 
 here, and lodged within the walls of this mill. Once 
 put up, I defy the framebreakers ; let them only pay 
 me a visit, and take the consequences : my mill is my 
 castle." 
 
 " One despises such low scoundrels," observed 
 Malone, in a profound vein of reflection. " I almost 
 wish a party would call upon you to-night ; but the 
 road seemed extremely quiet as I came along : I saw 
 nothinor astu'." 
 
 " You came by the Redhouse ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " There woidd be nothing on that road : it is in 
 the direction of Stilbro' the risk hes." 
 
 " And you tliink there is risk ? " 
 
 " AVhat these fellows have done to others, they 
 may do to me. There is only this diiference : most 
 of the manufacturers seem paralyzed when they are 
 attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his dressing- 
 shop was set on fii'e and burned to the ground, when 
 the cloth was torn from his tenters and left in shreds 
 in the field, took no steps to discover or punish the 
 miscreants ; he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under 
 the jaws of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself, 
 should stand by my trade, my mill, and my ma- 
 cliinery." 
 
 " Helstone says these three are your gods ; that 
 the ' Orders in Council ' are with you another name
 
 THE WAGGONS. 31 
 
 for the seven deadly sins ; that Castlereagh is your 
 Antichrist, and the war-party his legions." 
 
 " Yes ; I abhor all these things because they ruin 
 me ; they stand in my way. I cannot get on — I 
 cannot execute my plans because of them ; I see 
 myself baffled at every turn by their untoward 
 effects." 
 
 " But you are rich and tliriving, ^loore ? " 
 
 " I am very rich in cloth, I cannot sell ; you should 
 step into my warehouse yonder, and observe how it 
 is piled to the -roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson 
 are in the same condition ; America used to be their 
 market, but the Orders in Council have cut that 
 off." 
 
 Malone did not seem prepared to carry on 
 briskly a conversation of this sort ; he began to knock 
 tlie heels of his boots together, and to yawn. 
 
 " And then to think," continued ]\Ir. Moore, who 
 seemed too much taken up with the current of his own 
 thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest's ennui, 
 — " to think that these ridiculous gossips of "Wliinbuiy 
 and Briarfield will keep pestering one about being 
 married ! As if there was nothing to be done in life 
 but to 'pay attention,' as they say, to some young 
 lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to 
 start on a bridal toui', and then to run tlu'ough a 
 round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be ' having a 
 family.' — Oh, que le diable emporte !" — He broke off 
 the aspiration into which he was launching with a 
 certain energy, and added, more calmly — " I believe
 
 32 SHIRLEY. 
 
 women talk and think only of these things, and they 
 naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied." 
 
 "Of course — of course," assented Malone; ''^but 
 never mind them." And he whistled, looked im- 
 patiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of 
 something. This time Moore caught, and, it appeared, 
 comprehended his demonstrations. 
 
 '^ Mr. Malone," said he, " you must require refresh- 
 ment after your wet walk ; I forget hospitality." 
 
 " Not at all," rejoined Malone ; but he looked as if 
 the right nail was at last hit on the h^ad, neverthe- 
 less. Moore rose and opened a cupboard. 
 
 ^' It is my fancy," said he, " to have every con- 
 venience within myself, and not to be dependent on 
 the feminity in the cottage yonder for every mouth- 
 ful I eat or every drop I di'ink. I often spend the 
 evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott 
 in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman ; I 
 require Kttle sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night 
 to wander for an hour or two with my musket about 
 the hollow. — ]Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton- 
 chop?" 
 
 " Try me : I 've done it hundreds of times at col- 
 lege." 
 
 " There 's a dishful, then, and there 's the gridiron. 
 Turn them quickly ; you know the secret of keeping 
 the juices in?" 
 
 " Never fear me — you shall see. Hand a knife 
 and fork, please." 
 
 The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied
 
 THE WAGfrOXS. 33 
 
 himself to the cookery with vigour. The manu- 
 facturer placed on the table, plates, a loaf of bread, 
 a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then pro- 
 duced a small copper kettle — still from the same 
 well-stored recess, his cupboard — filled it with water 
 from a large stone jar in a comer, set it on the fire 
 beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and 
 a small cliina punch-bowl ; but while he was brewing 
 the punch, a tap at the door called him away. 
 
 " Is it you, Sarah ? " 
 
 " Yes, su'. Will you come to supper, please sir ? *' 
 
 " Xo ; I shall not be in to-night : I shall sleep in 
 the mdl. So lock the doors, and teU yom- mistress 
 to go to bed." He retiumed. 
 
 ''•You have your household in proper order,'' 
 observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fijie face 
 ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he assidu- 
 ously tiurned the mutton - chops. " You are not 
 under petticoat-government, like poor Sweeting : a 
 man — whew! — how the fat spits! — it has burnt 
 my hand — destined to be rided by women. Xow 
 you and I, Moore — there 's a fine brown one for 
 you, and full of gravy — you and I will have no grey 
 mares in om* stables when we marry." 
 
 " I don't know — I never think about it ; if the 
 grey mare is handsome and tractable,, why not ? " 
 
 '^ The chops are done : is the punch brewed ? " 
 
 " There is a glassful : taste it. When Joe Scott 
 and his minions return they shall have a share of 
 this, provided they bring home the frames intact.'' 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 SHIRLEY. 
 
 ^ IMalone -waxed veiy exultant over the supper : he 
 laughed aloud at trifles ; made bad jokes and ap- 
 plauded them liimself ; and, in short, grew unmean- 
 ingly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained 
 quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you should 
 have some idea of the appearance of this same host : 
 I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table. 
 
 He is what you would probably call, at first view, 
 rather a strange-looking man ; for he is thin, dark, 
 sallow ; very foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair 
 carelessly streaking his forehead : it appears that he 
 spends but little time at his toilette, or he would 
 arrange it with more taste. He seems unconscious 
 that his features are fine, that they have a southern 
 symmetry, clearness, regularity in their chiseling ; 
 nor does a spectator become aware of this advantage 
 till he has examined hun well, for an anxious coun- 
 tenance, and a hollow somewhat haggard outline of 
 face disturb the idea of beauty with one of care. 
 His eyes are large, and grave, and gray ; their 
 expression is intent and meditative, rather searching 
 than soft, rather thoughtful than genial. ^Mien he 
 parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agree- 
 able ; not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but 
 you feel the influence of a certain sedate charm, 
 suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of a con- 
 siderate, perhaps a kind nature ; of feelings that may 
 wear well at home; patient, forbearing, possibly 
 faithful feehngs. He is still young — not more than 
 thirty; liis stature is tall, his figure slender. His
 
 THE WAGGONS. 35 
 
 manner of speaking displeases ; lie has an outlandisli 
 accent, which, notwithstanding a studied careless- 
 ness of pronunciation and diction, grates on a British, 
 and especially on a Yorkshire ear. 
 
 Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and 
 scarcely that. He came of a foreign ancestry by 
 the mother's side, and was himself born, and partly 
 reared, on a foreign soil. A hybrid in nature, it is 
 probable he had a hybrid's feeling on many points — 
 patriotism for one ; it is likely that he was unapt to 
 attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes and 
 customs ; it is not impossible that he had a tendency 
 to isolate his individual person from any community 
 amidst which his lot might temporarily happen to 
 be thrown, and that he felt it to be his best wisdom 
 to push the interests of Robert Gerard Moore, to 
 the exclusion of philanthropic consideration for gene- 
 ral interests, with which he regarded the said Gerard 
 Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Trade 
 Avas Mr. Moore's hereditary calling. The Gerards 
 of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries 
 back ; once they had been wealtliy merchants, but 
 the uncertainties, the involvements of business had 
 come upon them ; disastrous speculations had 
 loosened by degrees the foundations of their credit ; 
 the house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen 
 years ; and at last, in the shock of the French Revo- 
 lution, it had rushed down a total ruin. In its fall 
 was involved the English and Yorkshire firm of 
 Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp house, 
 
 B 2
 
 36 SHir.LEY. 
 
 and of which one of the partners, resident in An- 
 twerp, Eobert Moore, had married Hortense Ge- 
 rard, with the prospect of his bride inheriting her 
 father Constantine Gerard's share in the business. 
 She inherited, as we have seen, but his share in the 
 liabihties of the firm ; and these liabihties, though 
 duly set aside by a composition with creditors, some 
 said her son Robert accepted, in his turn, as a 
 legacy ; and that he asi)ired one day to discharge 
 them, and to rebuild the fallen house of Gerard and 
 IMoore on a scale at least equal to its former great- 
 ness. It was even supposed that he took by-past 
 circumstances much to heart, and if a childhood 
 passed at the side of a saturnine mother, under fore- 
 boding of coming evil, and a manhood drenched and 
 bhghted by the pitiless descent of the storm, could 
 painfully impress the mind, his probably was im- 
 pressed in no golden characters. 
 
 If, however, he had a great end of restoration in 
 view, it was not in his power to employ great means 
 for its attainment ; he was obliged to be content with 
 the day of small things. AVhen he came to Yorkshire, 
 he whose ancestors had owned warehouses in this 
 seaport, and foctories in that inland town, had pos- 
 sessed'their town-house and their country-seat, saw 
 no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill, in an 
 out-of-the-way nook of an out-of-the-way district, 
 to take a cottage adjoining it for his residence, and 
 to add to his possessions, as pasture for his horse, 
 and space for his cloth-tenters, a few acres of the
 
 THE V.-AGGOXS. 37 
 
 steep rugged land that lined the hollow through 
 which his mill-stream brawled. All this he held at 
 a somewhat high rent (for these war times were 
 hard, and everything was dear), of the trustees of 
 the Fieldhead estate, then the property of a minor. 
 
 At the time this history commences, he had lived 
 but two years in the di-itrict, during wliich period he 
 had at least proved himself possessed of the quality 
 of activity. The dingy cottage was converted into a 
 neat, tastefiil residence. Of part of the rough land 
 he had made garden-ground, which he culti\-ated 
 with singular, even with Flemish, exactness and care. 
 As to the mill, wliich was an old structure, and fitted 
 up« with old machinery, now become inefficient and 
 out of date, he had from the first evinced the 
 strongest contempt for all its arrangements and ap- 
 pointments ; his aim had been to effect a radical re- 
 form, which he had executed as fast as his veiy hmited 
 capital woidd allow ; and the narrowness of that 
 capital, and consequent check on his progress, was a 
 restraint which galled his spirit sorely. Moore ever 
 wanted to push on. •• Forward"" was the device 
 stamped upon his soid; but poverty curbed Itim; 
 sometimes (figuratively) he foamed at the mouth 
 when the reins were di-awn very tight. 
 
 In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected 
 that he woidd deliberate much as to whether his 
 advance was or was not prejudicial to others. Xot 
 being a native, nor for any length of time a resident 
 of the neighbouihood, he did not sufficiently care
 
 38 SHIRLEY. 
 
 when the new inventions threw the old work-people 
 out of employ ; he never asked himself where those 
 to whom he no longer paid weekly wages found 
 daily bread ; and in .this neghgence he only re- 
 sembled thousands besides, on whom the starving 
 poor of Yorkshire seemed to have a closer claim. 
 
 The period of which I write was an overshadowed 
 one in British history, and especially in the history 
 of the northern provinces. War was then at its 
 height. Em'ope was all involved therein. England, 
 if not weary, was worn with long resistance ; yes, 
 and half her people were weary too, and cried out 
 for peace on any terms. National honour was be- 
 come a mere empty name of no value in the eye^ of 
 many, because their sight was dim with famine, and 
 for a morsel of meat they would have sold their 
 birthrio'ht. 
 
 The " Orders in Council," provoked by Napoleon's 
 Milan and Berlin decrees, and forbidding neutral 
 powers to trade with France, had, by offending 
 Amenca, cut off the principal market of the York- 
 shire woollen trade, and brought it consequently to 
 the verge of ruin. ]VIinor foreign markets were 
 glutted, and would receive no more. The Brazils, 
 Portugal, Sicily, were all overstocked by nearly two 
 years' consumption. At this crisis, certain inven- 
 fions in machinery were introduced into the staple 
 Manufactures of the north, which, greatly reducing 
 the number of hands necessary to be employed, 
 threw thousands out of work, and left them without
 
 THE WAGGOXS. 39 
 
 legitimate means of sustaining life. A bad harvest 
 supervened. Distress reached its climax. Endu- 
 rance, over-goaded, stretched the hand of fraternity 
 to sedition ; the tlii'oes of a ^ort of moral earthquake 
 were felt heaving under the hills of the northern 
 counties. But, as is usual in such cases, nobody 
 took much notice. When a food-riot broke out in 
 a manufacturing town, when a gig-mill was burnt 
 to the ground, or a manufacturer's house was at- 
 tacked, the furniture tlirown into the streets, and 
 the family forced to flee for their lives, some local 
 measures were or were not taken by the local ma- 
 gistracy ; a ringleader was detected, or more fre- 
 quently suffered to elude detection, newspaper para- 
 graphs were written on the subject, and there the 
 thing stopped. As to the sufferers, whose sole in- 
 heritance was labour, and who had lost that inheri- 
 tance; who could not get work, and consequently 
 could not get wages, and consequently could not 
 get bread, they were left to suffer on, perhaps in- 
 evitably left; it would not do to stop the progress 
 of invention, to damage science by discouraging its 
 improvements ; the war could not be terminated, 
 efficient relief could not be raised ; there was no 
 help then, so the unemployed underwent their 
 destiny — ate the bread, and drank the waters of 
 affliction. 
 
 Misery generates hate ; these sufferers hated the 
 machines which they believed took their bread from 
 them ; they hated the buildings Avhich contained those
 
 40 SHIRLEY. 
 
 machines ; tliey liated the manufacturers who owned 
 those buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, w^ith 
 which we have at present to do, Hollow's-mill was 
 the place held most abominable ; Gerard Moore, in 
 his double character of semi-foreigner and thorough- 
 going progressist, the man most abominated. And 
 it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's temperament 
 than otherwise to be generally hated, especially when 
 he beHeved the thing for which he was hated a right 
 and an expedient thing ; and it was with a sense of 
 warlike excitement he, on this night, sat in his 
 counting-house waiting the arrival of his frame- 
 laden waggons. Malone's coming and company 
 were, it may be, most unwelcome to him ; he would 
 have preferred sitting alone, for he liked a silent, 
 sombre, unsafe solitude ; his watchman's musket 
 would have been company enough for liim ; the fuU- 
 flowino' beck in the den would have delivered con- 
 tinuously the discourse most genial to liis ear. 
 
 With the queerest look in the world, had the 
 manufacturer for some ten minutes been watching 
 the Irish curate, as the latter made free with the 
 punch, when suddenly that steady gray eye changed, 
 as if another vision came between it and Malone. 
 He raised liis hand. 
 
 " Chut I" he said, in liis French fashion, as ]Malone 
 made a noise with his glass. He listened a moment, 
 then rose, put his hat on, and w^ent out at the count- 
 ing-house door.
 
 THE WAGGONS. 41 
 
 The night was still, dark, and stagnant, the water 
 yet rushed on full and fast ; its flow almost seemed 
 a flood in the utter silence. Moore's ear, however, 
 caught another sound — very distant, but yet dis- 
 similar — broken, and rugged ; in short, a sound of 
 heavy wheels crunching a stony road. He returned 
 to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with vv'liich 
 he walked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to 
 open the gates. The big waggons were coming on ; 
 the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing in 
 the mud and water. Moore hailed them. 
 
 " Hey, Joe Scott ! Is all right ?" 
 
 Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance 
 to hear the inquiry ; he did not answer it. 
 
 '^Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore, when 
 the elep]iant-like leader's nose almost touched his. 
 
 Some one jmnped out from the foremost waggon 
 into the road ; a voice cried aloud, " Ay, ay, divil, 
 all 's raight ! We 've smashed 'em." 
 
 And there was a run. The waggons stood still ; 
 they were now deserted. 
 
 "Joe Scott I" No Joe Scott answered. " Mur- 
 gatroyd ! Pigiiills ! Sykes ! " Xo reply. ^Ir. Moore 
 lifted his lantern, and looked into the veliicles ; there 
 was neither man nor machinery ; they were empty 
 and abandoned. 
 
 Now Mr. Moore loved his machiner}'. He had 
 risked the last of his capital on the purchase of these 
 frames and shears which to-night had been expected ; 
 speculations most important to his interests depended
 
 42 SHIRLEY. 
 
 on the results to be wrought by them ; where were 
 they? 
 
 The words "we've smashed 'em!" rung in his 
 ears. How did the catastrophe aiFect him ? By the 
 light of the lantern he held^ were his features visible, 
 relaxing to a singular smile ; the smile the man of 
 determined spirit wears when he reaches a juncture 
 in his life where this determined spirit is to feel a 
 demand on its strength, when the strain is to be 
 made, and the faculty must bear or break ; yet he 
 remained silent and even motionless, for at the in- 
 stant he neither knew what to say nor what to do. 
 He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with 
 his arms folded, gazing down and reflecting. 
 
 An impatient trampling of one of the horses made 
 him presently look up; his eye, in the moment, 
 causht the gleam of somethinor white attached to a 
 part of the harness. Examined by the light of the 
 lantern, this proved to be a folded paper — a billet. 
 It bore no address without ; within was the super- 
 scription : — 
 
 " To the Divil of Hollow's-mihi." 
 
 We will not copy the rest of the orthography, 
 which was very peculiar, but translate it into legible 
 English. It ran thus : — 
 
 " Your hellish maciiinery is shivered to smash on 
 Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand 
 and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a 
 warning from men that are starving, and have 
 starving wives and children to go home to when
 
 THE WAGGONS* 43 
 
 they have done this deed. If you get new machines, 
 or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you 
 shall hear from us again. Beware ! " 
 
 " Hear from you again ? Yes ; I '11 hear from 
 you again, and you shall hear from me ; I '11 speak to 
 you directly ; on Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from 
 me in a moment." 
 
 Having led the waggons within the gates, he 
 hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he 
 spoke a few words quickly but quietly to two females 
 who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the 
 seeming alarm of one by a brief palliative account of 
 what had taken place ; to the other he said, " Go 
 into the mill, Sarah — there is the key — and ring the 
 mill-bell as loud as you can : afterwards you will 
 get another lantern and help me to light up the 
 front." 
 
 Hetuming to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and 
 stabled them with equal speed and care, pausing oc- 
 casionally, while so occupied, as if to listen for the 
 mill-bell. It clanged out presently with irregular 
 but loud and alarming din ; the hurried agitated peal 
 seemed more urgent than if the summons had been 
 steadily given by a practised hand. On that still 
 night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way 
 round; the guests in the kitchen of the Redhouse 
 were startled by the clangour; and declaring that 
 '^ there must be summat more nor common to do at 
 Hollow 's-miln," they called for lanterns, and hurried 
 to the spot in a body. And scarcely had they
 
 44 sniPvLEY. 
 
 tlironofed into the vard with their o;leaminoj lijrhts. 
 when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man 
 in a shovel hat, sitting erect on the back of a shaggy 
 pony, " rode lightly in/' followed by an aide-de- 
 camp mounted on a larger steed. 
 
 Mr. !Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray- 
 horses, had saddled his hackney, and with the aid of 
 Sarah, the servant, lit up his mill, whose wide and 
 lono- front now s^lared one o;reat illumination, throw- 
 ing a sufficient light on the yard to obviate all fear 
 of confusion arising from obscurity. Already a deep 
 hum of voices became audible : ]Mr. ]\Ialone had at 
 length issued from the counting-house, previously 
 taking the precaution to dip liis head and face in the 
 stone water-jar, and this precaution, together with 
 the sudden alarm, had nearly restored to hun the 
 possession of those senses which the punch had 
 partially scattered. He stood with his hat on the 
 back of his head, and liis sliillelagh grasped in his 
 dexter fist, answering much at random the questions 
 of the newly-arrived party from the Rcdhouse. 
 ]\Ir. ^loore now appeared, and was immediately con- 
 fronted by the shovel hat and the shaggy pony. 
 
 " Well, Moore, what is your business with us ? I 
 thought you would want us to-night, me and the 
 hetman here (patting his pony's neck), and Tom and 
 his charger. When I heard your mill-bell, I could 
 sit still no longer, so I left Boultby to finish his 
 supper alone : but where is the enemy ? I do not 
 see a mask or a smutted face present ; and there is
 
 THE WAGGOXS. 45 
 
 not a pane of glass broken in your windows. Have 
 you had an attack, or do yon expect one ? " 
 
 " Oh, not at all I I have neither had one nor 
 expect one," answered Moore, coolly. " I only 
 ordered the bell to be runo- because I want two or 
 three neighbours to stay here in the Hollow, while 
 I and a couple or so more go over to Stilbro' Moor." 
 
 " To Stilbro' Moor ! What to do ? To meet the 
 waggons ? " 
 
 " The waggons are come home an hour ago." 
 
 " Then all 's right. What more would you have ? " 
 
 " They came home empty, and Joe Scott and 
 Company are left on the moor, and so are the frames. 
 Read that scrawl." 
 
 jVIr. Helstone received and perused the document 
 of which the contents have before been given. 
 
 " Hum ! They 've only served you as they serve 
 others. But, however, the poor fellows in the ditch 
 will be expecting help with some impatience : tliis is 
 a wet night for such a berth : I and Tom will go 
 with you ; Malone may stay beliind and take care of 
 the mill : what is the matter with liim ? His eyes 
 seem starting out of his head." 
 
 " He has been eating a mutton-chop." 
 
 " Indeed ! Peter Auo-ustus, be on vour o;uard. 
 Eat no more mutton-chops to-night. You are left 
 here in conmiand of these premises ; an honourable 
 post!" 
 
 " Is anybody to stay with me ?" 
 
 " As many of the present assemblage as choose.
 
 46 SHIRLEY. 
 
 My lads, how many of you will remain here, 
 and how many will go a little way with me and 
 Mr. Moore on the Stilbro'-road, to meet some men 
 who have been waylaid and assaulted by frame- 
 breakers ? " 
 
 The small number of three volunteered to go; 
 the rest preferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore 
 mounted his horse, the rector asked hun in a low 
 voice, whether he had locked up the mutton-chops, 
 so that Peter Augustus could not get at them ? The 
 manufacturer nodded an aifirmative, and the rescue- 
 party set out
 
 ME. YORKE. 47 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 MR. YORKE. "^ 
 
 Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which 
 depends fiiUy as much on the state of things within, 
 as on the state of things without and around us. I 
 make this trite remark, because I happen to know 
 that Messrs. Helstone and Moore trotted forth from 
 the mill-yard gates, at the head of their very small 
 company, in the best possible spirits. When a ray 
 from, a lantern (the three pedestrians of the party 
 carried each one) fell on Mr. Moore's face, you could 
 see an unusual, because a lively, spark dancing in 
 his eyes, and a new-found vivacity mantling on his 
 dark physiognomy; and when the rector's \isage was 
 illuminated, his hard features were revealed all agrin 
 and ashine with orlee. Yet a drizzlino; ninrht, a some- 
 what perilous expedition, you would tliink, were not 
 circumstances calculated to enliven those exposed to 
 the wet, and engaged in the adventm-e. If any 
 member or members of the crew who had been at 
 work on Stilbro' Moor had caught a view of this 
 party, they would have had great pleasure in shoot-
 
 48 SHIRLEY. 
 
 ing either of the leaders from behind a wall : and the 
 leaders knew this, and, the fact is, being both men 
 of steelly nerves and steady-beating hearts, were 
 elate with the knowledge. 
 
 I am aware, reader, and you need not remind me, 
 that it is a dreadful thing for a parson to be warlike : 
 I am aware that he should be a man of peace : I have 
 some faint outline of an idea of what a clergyman's 
 mission is amongst mankind, and I remember dis- 
 tinctly whose servant he is, whose message he 
 delivers, whose example he should follow ; yet, with 
 all this, if you are a parson-hater, you need not 
 expect me to go along with you every step of your 
 dismal, downward-tending, unchristian road; you 
 need not expect me to join in your deep anathemas, 
 at once so narrow and so sweeping — in your poison- 
 ous rancour, so intense and so absurd, against " the 
 cloth ; " to lift up my eyes and hands with a Supple- 
 hough, or to inflate my lungs with a Barraclough, in 
 horror and denunciation of the diabolical rector of 
 Briarfield. 
 
 He was not diabolical at all. The evil simply 
 was — he had missed his vocation: he should liave 
 been a soldier, and circumstances had made him a 
 priest. For the rest, he was a conscientious, hard- 
 headed, hard-handed, brave, stern, implacable, faith- 
 ful little man: a man almost without sympathy, 
 ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid; but a man true to 
 principle, — honourable, sagacious, and sincere. It 
 seems to me, reader, that you cannot always cut out
 
 MR. YORKE. 49 
 
 men to fit their profession, and that you ought not to 
 curse them because that profession sometimes hangs 
 on them ungracefully — nor will I curse Helstone, 
 clerical Cossack as he was. Yet he was cursed, and 
 by many of his own parishioners, as by others he 
 was adored, which is the frequent fate of men who 
 show partiality in friendship, and bitterness in 
 enmity ; who are equally attached to principles and 
 adherent to prejudices. 
 
 Helstone and Moore, being both in excellent 
 spirits, and united for the present in one cause, you 
 would expect that, as they rode side by side, they 
 would converse amicably. Oh, no! These two 
 men, of hard bilious natures both, rarely came into 
 contact but they chafed each other's moods: their 
 frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone 
 was a high Tory (there were Tories in those days) 
 and Moore was a bitter Whig — a Whig, at least, as 
 far as opposition to the war-party was concerned, 
 that being the question which affected his own 
 interest; and only on that question did he profess 
 any British politics at all. He liked to infuriate 
 Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibility 
 of Bonaparte ; by taunting England and Europe 
 with the impotence of their efforts to withstand 
 him; and by coolly advancing the opinion that it 
 was as well to yield to hun soon as late, since he 
 must in the end crush every antagonist, and reign 
 supreme. 
 
 Helstone could not bear these sentiments : it was 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 SHIRLEY. 
 
 only on the consideration of Moore being a sort of 
 outcast and alien, and having but half measure of 
 British blood to temper the foreign gall which 
 coiToded liis veins, that he brought liimself to listen 
 to them without indulging the wish he felt to cane 
 the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhat allayed 
 his disgust ; namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged 
 tone with "which these opinions were asserted, and a 
 respect for the consistency of Moore's crabbed con- 
 tumacy. 
 
 As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, they 
 met what little wind there was ; the rain dashed in 
 their faces. Moore had been fretting his companion 
 previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, , 
 and perhaps irritated by the sharp di'izzle, he began 
 to goad him. 
 
 " Does your Peninsular news please you still?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " ^Vhat do you mean?" was the surly demand of 
 the Rector. 
 
 " I mean have you still faith in that Baal of a 
 Lord Wellington?" 
 
 " And what do you mean now?" 
 
 " Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and 
 pebble-hearted idol of England has power to send 
 fire down from heaven to consume the French 
 holocaust you want to offer up?" 
 
 " I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's mar- 
 shals into the sea, the day it pleases liim to lift his
 
 MR. YORKE. 51 
 
 " But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what 
 you say. Bonaparte's marshals are great men, who 
 act under the guidance of an omnipotent master- 
 spirit: your Wellington is the most humdrum of 
 common-place martinets, whose slow mechanical 
 movements are further cramped by an ignorant 
 home-government." 
 
 " Wellino;ton is the soul of Ensfland. Wellino;ton 
 is the right champion of a good cause ; the fit repre- 
 sentative of a powerful, a resolute, a sensible, and an 
 honest nation." 
 
 " Your good cause, as far as I imderstand it, is 
 simply the restoration of that filthy, feeble Ferdinand, 
 to a throne which he disgraced : your fit representa- 
 tive of an honest people is a dull-witted drover, act- 
 inoj for a duller-witted farmer: and a2:ainst these 
 are arrayed victorious supremacy and invincible 
 genius." 
 
 " Against legitimacy is array ed»usurpation: against 
 modest, single-minded, righteous, and brave resis- 
 tance to encroachment, is arrayed boastful, double- 
 tongued, selfish, and treacherous ambition to possess. 
 God defend the right ! " ^ 
 
 " God often defends the powerful." 
 
 " What ! I suppose the handful of Israelites stand- 
 ing dry-shod on the Asiatic side of the Red Sea, 
 was more powerful than the host of the Egyptians 
 drawn up on the African side ? Were they more 
 numerous ? Were they better appointed ? Were 
 they more mighty, in a word — eh? Don't speak, 
 
 E 2 
 
 U, vF ILL UR.
 
 52 SHIRLEY. 
 
 or you '11 tell a lie, Moore ; you know you will. 
 They were a poor over-wrought band of bondsmen. 
 Tyrants had oppressed them through four hundred 
 years; a feebleciuixture of women and children 
 diluted their thin ranks ; their masters, who roared to 
 follow them through the divided flood, were a set of 
 pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as 
 the lions of Lybia. They were armed, horsed, and 
 charioted, the poor Hebrew wanderers were a-foot ; 
 few of them, it is likely, had better weapons than 
 their shepherds' crooks, or their masons' building- 
 tools ; their meek and mighty leader himself had only 
 his rod. But bethink you, Robert Moore, right was 
 with them ; the God of battles was on their side ; crime 
 and the lost archangel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, 
 and which triumphed ? We know that well : ' The 
 Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the 
 Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon 
 the sea-shore ;' yea, ' the depths covered them, they 
 sank to the bottom as a stone.' The right hand of 
 the Lord became glorious in power ; the right hand 
 of the Lord dashed in pieces the enemy ! " 
 
 " You are all right, only you forget the true 
 parallel. France is Israel, and Napoleon is Moses. 
 Europe, with her old over-gorged empires and rot- 
 ten dynasties is corrupt Egypt; gallant France is 
 the Twelve Tribes, and her fresh and vigorous 
 Usurper the Shepherd of Horeb." 
 
 " I scorn to answer you." 
 
 Moore accordingly answered himself, at least he
 
 ME. YORKE. 53 
 
 subjoined to what he had just said an additional 
 observation in a lower voice. 
 
 " Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses I 
 He was the right thing there^ fit to head and orga- 
 nize measures for the regeneration of nations. It 
 puzzles me to this day how the conqueror of Lodi 
 should have condescended to become an emperor, a 
 vulgar, a stupid humbug ; and stiU more how a peo- 
 ple, who had once caEed themselves republicans, 
 should have sunk ag-ain to the orrade of mere slaves. 
 I despise France ! If England had gone as far on 
 the march of civilization as France did, she would 
 hardly have retreated so shamelessly." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that besotted imperial 
 France is any worse than bloody republican France ? " 
 demanded Helstone, fiercely. 
 
 " I mean to say nothing, but I can think what 
 I please, you know, Mr. Helstone, both about 
 France and England, and about revolutions, and 
 regicides, and restorations in general ; and about the 
 divine right of kings, which you often stickle for in 
 your sermons, and the dut}^ of non-resistance, and 
 the sanity of war, and " 
 
 Mr. Moore's sentence was here cut short by the 
 rapid rolling up of a gig, and its sudden stoppage in 
 the middle of the road ; both he and the Rector had 
 been too much occupied with their discourse to 
 notice its approach tUl it was close upon them. 
 
 " Nah, maister, did th' waggons hit home ? " de^ 
 manded a voice from the vehicle.
 
 54 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Can that be Joe Scott?" 
 
 "Ay, ay!'' returned another voice, for the gig 
 contained two persons, as was seen by the glimmer 
 of its lamp — the men with the lanterns had now 
 fallen into the rear, or rather the equestrians of the 
 rescue-party had outridden the pedestrians. " Ay, 
 Mr. Moore, it's Joe Scott. I'm bringing liim back 
 to you in a bonny pickle ; I fand him on the top of 
 the moor yonder, him and three others. What will 
 you give me for restoring hmi to you ? " 
 
 " Why, my thanks, I believe ; for I could better 
 have afforded to lose a better man. That is you, I 
 suppose, Mr. Yorke, by your voice ? " 
 
 " Ay, lad, it's me. I was coming home from 
 Stilbro' market, and just as I got to the middle 
 of the moor, and was whipping on as swift as the 
 "wind (for these, they say, are not safe times, thanks 
 to a bad government !) I heard a groan. I pulled 
 up, some would have whipt on faster ; but I've 
 naught to fear, that I know of. I don't believe 
 there's a lad in these parts would harm me, at 
 least I'd give them as good as I got if they offered 
 to do it. I said, 'Is there aught wrong anywhere?' 
 — ' 'Deed is there,' somebody says, speaking out of 
 the ground, like. 'What's to do? be sharp, and 
 tell me,' I ordered. — " Xobbut four on us ligging 
 in a ditch,' says Joe, as quiet as could be. I tell'd 
 'em, more shame to 'cm, and bid them get up and 
 move on, or I 'd lend them a hck of the gig-whip ; 
 for my notion was, they were all fresh. — 'We'd
 
 MK. YOEKE. 00 
 
 ha' donfe that an hour sin'; but we're teed wi' a 
 bit o' band,' says Joe. So in a while I got down 
 and loosed 'em wi' my penknife; and Scott vrould 
 ride wi' me, to tell me all how it happened; and 
 t' others are coming on as fast as their feet will bring 
 them." 
 
 " Well, I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 " Are you, my lad ? you know you 're not. Hovr- 
 ever, here are the rest approaching. And here, by 
 the Lord! is another set with lights in their 
 pitchers, like the army of Gideon ; and as we 've th' 
 parson wi' us, — good-evening, ]Mr. Helstone, — we'se 
 do." 
 
 Mr. Helstone returned the salutation of the in- 
 dividual in the gig very stiffly indeed. That indi- 
 vidual proceeded : — 
 
 "We're eleven strong men, and there's both 
 horses and chariots amang us. If we could only fall 
 in wi' some of these starved ras^amuffins of frame 
 breakers, we could win a grand victory; we could 
 iv'ry one be a Wellington, — that would please ye, 
 Mr. Helstone; and sich paragraphs as we could 
 contrive for t' papers ! Briai-iield suld be famous ; 
 but we'se hev a column and a half i' th' Stilhro'' 
 Courier ower this job, as it is, I daresay: I 'se expect 
 no less." 
 
 " And I '11 promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for 
 I '11 write the article myself," returned the Rector. 
 
 " To be sure I sartainly I And mind ye recom- 
 mend weel that them 'at brake t' bits o' frames, and
 
 56 SHIRLEY. 
 
 teed Joe Scott's legs wi' band, suld be hung without 
 benefit o' clergy. It 's a hanging matter, or siild be ; 
 no doubt o' that." 
 
 " If I judged them, I'd give them short shrift!" 
 cried Moore ; " but I mean to let them quite alone 
 this bout, to give them rope enough, certain that in 
 the end they will hang themselves." 
 
 " Let them alone, wiU ye, Moore ? Do you 
 promise that ? " 
 
 '^Promise? Xo. AU I mean to say is, I shall 
 give myself no particular trouble to catch them ; but 
 if one falls in my way^ " 
 
 '' You '11 snap him up, of course : only you would 
 rather they would do something worse than merely 
 stop a waggon before you reckon with them. Well, 
 we '11 say no more on the subject at present. Here 
 we are at my door, gentlemen, and I hope you and 
 the men will step in : you will none of you be the 
 worse of a little refreshment." 
 
 Moore and Helstone opposed this proposition as 
 unnecessary; it was, however, pressed on them so 
 courteously, and the night, besides, was so inclement, 
 and the gleam from the mushn-curtained windows of 
 the house before which they had halted, looked so 
 inviting, that at length they yielded. IMr. Yorke, 
 after having alighted from his gig, which he left in 
 char<Te of a man who issued from an outbuildinsj on 
 his arrival, led the way in. 
 
 It will have been remarked that ^Ir. Yorke varied 
 a little in his phraseology; now he sj^oke broad
 
 ME. YOEKE. 57 
 
 YorksMre, and anon he expressed himself in very- 
 pure English. His manner seemed liable to equal 
 alternations ; he could be polite and affable, and he 
 could be blunt and rough. His station then you 
 could not easily determine by his speech or de- 
 meanour; perhaps the appearance of his residence 
 may decide it. 
 
 The men, he recommended to take the kitchen 
 way, saying that he would " see them served wi' 
 summat to taste presently." The gentlemen were 
 ushered in at the front entrance. They found them- 
 selves in a matted hall, lined almost to the ceiling 
 with pictures ; through this they were conducted to 
 a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate ; 
 the most cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole, 
 and when you came to examine details, the enliven- 
 ing effect was not diminished. There was no splen- 
 dour, but there was taste everywhere, — unusual 
 taste, — the taste, you would have said, of a travelled 
 man, a scholar, and a gentleman. A series of Italian 
 views decked the walls ; each of these was a specimen 
 of true art ; a connoisseur had selected them : they 
 were genuine and valuable. Even by candlehght, 
 the bright, clear skies, the soft distances, with blue 
 air quivering between the eye and the hills, the fresh 
 tints and well massed lights and shadows charmed 
 the view. The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes 
 were all sunny. There was a guitar and some music 
 on a sofa ; there were cameos, beautiful miniatures, 
 a set of Grecian-looking vases on the mantelpiece ;
 
 58 SHIRLEY. 
 
 there were books well arranoiecl in two elejjant book- 
 cases. 
 
 Mr. Yorke bade liis guests be seated; he then 
 rang for wine; to the servant who brought it he 
 gave hospitable orders for the refreshment of the 
 men in the kitchen. The Rector remained standing ; 
 he seemed not to like his quarters; he would not 
 touch the wine his host offered him. 
 
 " E'en as you will," remarked Mr. Yorke. '^ I 
 reckon you're thinking of Eastern customs, Mr. 
 Helstone, and you'll not eat nor drink under my 
 roof, feared we suld be forced to be friends ; but I 'm 
 not so particular or superstitious. You might sup 
 the contents of that decanter, and you might give me 
 a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I 'd hold 
 myself free to oppose you at every turn still, — in 
 eveiy vestry-meeting and justice-meeting where we 
 encountered one another." 
 
 " It is just what I should expect of you, Mr. 
 Yorke." 
 
 "Does it agree wi' ye now, ^Ir. Helstone, to be 
 riding out after rioters, of a wet night, at your age?" 
 
 " It always agrees with me to be doing my duty, 
 and in this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. 
 To hunt down vermin is a noble occupation, — fit for 
 an Archbishop." 
 
 " Fit for ye, at ony rate : but w^here 's t' curate ? 
 He 's happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick 
 gird, or lie 's happen hunting down vermin in another 
 direction."
 
 ME. YORKE. 59 
 
 " He is doing garrison duty at Hollow's-inill/' 
 
 " You left him a sup o' wine, I hope. Bob (turning 
 to Mr. Moore), to keep his courage up ?" 
 
 He did not pause for an answer, but continued, 
 quickly, still addressing ]\Ioore, who had thrown 
 himself into an old-fashioned chair by the fireside, — 
 " ^loTC it, Robert ! Get up, my lad I That place 
 is mine. Take the sofa, or three other chairs, if you 
 will, but not this ; it belangs to me, and nob'dy else." 
 
 " Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. 
 Yorke?" asked Moore, lazily vacating the place, in 
 obedience to orders. 
 
 " My father war afore me, and that 's all t' answer 
 I sail gie thee ; and it 's as good a reason as ]Mr. 
 Helstone can give for the main feck o' his notions." 
 
 "Moore, are you ready to go?" inquired the 
 Rector. 
 
 " Xay ; Robert 's not ready ; or rather, I 'm not 
 ready to part wi' him : he 's an ill lad, and wants 
 correctino;." 
 
 " Why, sir ? What have I done ? " 
 
 " Made thyself enemies on every hand." 
 
 " What do I care for that ? AMiat difference does 
 it make to me whether your Yorksliire louts hate me 
 or like me ? " 
 
 " Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien 
 amang us ; liis father would never have talked i' that 
 way. Go back to Antwerp, where you were born 
 and bred, mauvaise tete I " 
 
 " Mauvaise tete vous-meme ; je ne fais que mon
 
 60 SHIRLEY. 
 
 devoir : quant a vos lourdauds de paysans, je m'en 
 moque !" 
 
 " En revanche, mon gargon, nos lourdauds de pay- 
 sans se moqueront de toi ; sois en certain," replied 
 Yorke, speaking with nearly as pure a French accent 
 as Gerard Moore. 
 
 "C'est bon! c'est bon! Et puisque cela m'est 
 egal, que mes amis ne s'en inquietent pas." 
 
 " Tes amis ! Ou sont-ils, tes amis ?" 
 
 " Je fais echo, ousont-ils ? et je suis fort aise quB 
 I'echo seul y repond. Au diable les amis ! Je me 
 souviens encore du moment ou mon pere et mes oncles 
 Gerard appellerent autour d'eux leurs amis, et Dieu 
 sait si les amis so sont empresses d'accourir a leur 
 secours ! Tenez, jNI. Yorke, ce mot, ami, m'irrite 
 trop ; ne m'en parlez plus." 
 
 " Comme tu voudi'as." 
 
 And here Mr. Yorke held his peace ; and while he 
 sits, leaning back in his three-cornered, carved oak 
 chair, I will snatch my opportunity to sketch the 
 portrait of this French-speaking Yorksliire gentle- 
 man.
 
 MK. YORKE. 61 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MPw YORKE (CONTIXUED). 
 
 A YOEKSHIEE gentleman he was par excellence, in 
 every point. About fifty-five years old, but looking at 
 first sight stiU older, for his hair was silver white. 
 His forehead was broad, not liigh ; his face fresh and 
 hale ; the harshness of the north was seen in his 
 features, as it w^as heard in his voice ; every trait was 
 thorouglily English, not a Xorman line anywhere ; it 
 was an inelegant, unclassic, unaristocratic mould of 
 visage. Fine people would perhaps have called it 
 vulgar ; sensible people would have termed it charac- 
 teristic ; shrewd people would have dehghted in it for 
 the pith, sagacity, inteUigence — the rude, yet real 
 originahty marked in every lineament, latent in every 
 furrow. But it was an indocile, a scornful, and a 
 sarcastic face ; the face of a man difficult to lead, and 
 impossible to drive. His stature vv^as rather tall, and 
 he was weU-made and wiry, and had a stately 
 integrity of port ; there was not a suspicion of the 
 clown about him anywhere. 
 
 I did not find it easy to sketch ]\Ir. Yorke's person,
 
 62 SHIRLEY* 
 
 but it is more difficult to indicate his mind. If you 
 expect to be treated to a Perfection^ reader, or even 
 to a benevolent, philanthropic old gentleman in him, 
 you are mistaken. He has spoken with some sense, 
 and with some good feeling, to Mr. Moore, but you 
 are not thence to conclude that he always spoke 
 and thought justly and kindly. 
 
 Mr. Yorke, in the first place, was without the 
 organ of Veneration — a great want, and which throws 
 a man wrong on every point where veneration is 
 required. Secondly, he was without the organ of 
 Comparison — a deficiency which strips a man of 
 sympathy ; and, thirdly, he had too little of the 
 organs of Benevolence and Ideality, which took the 
 glory and softness from his nature, and for him 
 diminished those divine qualities throughout the 
 universe. 
 
 The want of veneration made him intolerant to 
 those above liim : kings and nobles and priests, 
 dynasties and parliaments and establishments, with 
 all their doings, most of their enactments, their foniis, 
 tlieir rights, their claims, were to him an abomination 
 — all rubbish ; he found no use or pleasure in them, 
 and believed it would be clear gain, and no damage 
 to the world, if its high places were razed, and their 
 occupants crushed in the fall. The want of venera- 
 tion, too, made him dead at heart to the electric 
 delight of admmng what is admirable ; it ch-ied up a 
 thousand pure som-ces of enjoyment ; it withered a 
 thousand vivid pleasures. He was not irreligious.
 
 MPw TORKE. 63 
 
 though a member of no sect, but his religion could 
 not be that of one who knows how to yenerate. He 
 believed in God and heaven, but his God and heaven 
 were those of a man in whom awe, imagination, and 
 tenderness lack. 
 
 The weakness of his powers of comparison made 
 him inconsistent ; while he professed some excellent 
 general doctrines of mutual toleration and forbear- 
 ance, he cherished towards certain classes a bis^oted 
 antipathy : he spoke of " parsons " and all vv'ho 
 belonged to parsons, of " lords " and the appendages 
 of lords, with a harshness, sometimes an insolence, as 
 unjust as it was insufferable. He could not jolace 
 himself in the position of those he vituperated ; he 
 could not compare their errors with their temptations, 
 their defects with their disadvantages ; he could not 
 realize the effect of such and such circumstances on 
 himself similarly situated, and he would often express 
 the most ferocious and tyrannical wishes regarding 
 those who had acted, as he thought, ferociously and 
 tyrannically. To judge by his threats, he would 
 have employed arbitrary, even cruel, means to advance 
 the cause of freedom and equahty. Equality — yes, 
 Mr. Yorke talked about equahty, but at heart he was 
 a proud man ; very friendly to liis workpeople, very 
 good to all who were beneath him, and submitted 
 quietly to be beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub 
 to whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no 
 man) his superior. Revolt was in his blood ; he 
 could not bear control ; his father, his grandfather
 
 64 SHIRLEY. 
 
 before him, could not bear it, and his children after 
 liim never could. 
 
 Tlie want of general benevolence made him very 
 imj^atient of imbecility, and of all faults which grated 
 on his strong, shrewd nature : it left no check to his 
 cutting sarcasm. As he was not merciful, he would 
 sometimes wound and wound agam, without noticing 
 how much he hurt, or caring how deep he thi-ust. 
 
 As to the paucity of ideahty in his mind, that can 
 scarcely be called a fault : a fine ear for music, a 
 correct eye for colour and form, left him the quahty 
 of taste, and who cares for imagination ? Who does 
 not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute — 
 akin to weakness — perliaps partaking of frenzy — a 
 disease rather than a gift of the mind ? 
 
 Probably all think it so, but those who possess — 
 or fancy they possess — it. To hear them speak, you 
 would believe that their hearts would be cold if that 
 elixir did not flow about them ; that their eyes would 
 be dim if that flame did not refine their vision ; that 
 they would be lonely if this strange companion aban- 
 doned them. You would suppose that it imparted 
 some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to sunmier, 
 some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to 
 winter, which you do not feel. All illusion, of 
 course ; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and 
 would not give it for gold. 
 
 As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination 
 himself, he considered it a most superfluous quality 
 in others. Painters and musicians lie could tolerate.
 
 MR. TOPwIvE. 65 
 
 and even encourage^ because ne could relish the 
 results of their art ; he could see the charm of a fine 
 picture, and feel the pleasure of good music ; but a 
 quiet poet — whatever force struggled, whatever fire 
 glowed, in his breast — if he could not have played 
 the man in the counting-house, or the tradesman in 
 the Piece Hail, might have lived despised, and died 
 scorned, under the eyes of Hiram Yorke. 
 
 And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the 
 world, it is well that the true poet, quiet externally 
 though he may be, has often a truculent spirit under 
 his placidity, and is full of shrewdness in his meek- 
 ness, and can measure the whole stature of those wha 
 look down on him, and correctly ascertain the weight 
 and value of the piu'suits they disdain him for not 
 having followed. It is happy that he can liave his 
 own bliss, his own society with his great friend and 
 goddess, Xature, quite independent of those who 
 find little pleasui^e in him, and in whom he finds no 
 pleasure at all. It is just, that while the world and 
 circumstances often turn a dark, cold side to him — 
 and properly, too, because he first turns a dark, 
 cold, careless side to them — he should be able to 
 maintain a festal brightness and cherishing glow in 
 his bosom, which makes all brio-ht and o'enial for him, 
 while strangers, perhaps, deem his existence a Polar 
 winter never gladdened by a sun. The true poet is 
 not one wdiit to be pitied, and he is apt to laugh in 
 his sleeve, when any misguided sympathizer wliines 
 over his wrongs. Even when utihtarians sit in. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 SHIRLEY. 
 
 iudgment on him, and pronounce him and his art 
 useless, he hears the sentence with such a hard 
 derision, such a broad, deep, comprehensive, and 
 merciless contempt of the unhappy Pharisees who 
 pronounce it, that he is rather to be chidden than 
 condoled witli. These, however, are not Mr. Yorke's 
 reflections, and it is Avith jNIr. Yorke we have at 
 present to do. 
 
 I have told you some of his faults, reader; as to his 
 good points, he was one of the most honourable and 
 capable men in Yorkshire ; even those who disliked 
 him were forced to respect him. He was much 
 beloved by the poor, because he was thoroughly kind 
 and very fatherly to them. To his workmen he was 
 considerate and cordial : when he dismissed them 
 from an occupation, he would try to set them on to 
 something else ; or, if that was impossible, help them 
 to remove with their families to a district where 
 work might possibly be had. It must also be re- 
 marked that if, as sometimes chanced, any individual 
 amongst his " hands " showed signs of insubordina- 
 tion, Yorke — who, like many who abhor being con- 
 trolled, knew how to control with vigour — had the 
 secret of cmshing rebellion in the germ, of eradi- 
 cating it like a bad weed, so that it never spread or 
 developed within the sphere of his authority. Such 
 being the happy state of his own affairs, he felt him- 
 self at liberty to speak with the utmost severity of 
 those who were differently situated, to ascribe what- 
 ever was unpleasant in their position entirely to their
 
 MS. YORKE. 67 
 
 own faiilt, to sever himself from the masters, and 
 advocate freely the cause of the operatives. 
 
 !Mr. Yorke's family was the first and oldest in the 
 district ; and he, though not the wealthiest, was one 
 of the most influential men. His education had been 
 good ; in his youth, before the French Revolution, 
 he had travelled on the continent : he was an adept 
 in the French and Italian languages. During a two 
 years' sojourn in Italy, he had collected many good 
 paintings and tasteful rarities, with which his resi- 
 dence was now adorned. His manners, when he 
 liked, were those of a finished gentleman of the old 
 school; his conversation, when he was disposed to 
 please, was singidarly interesting and original ; and 
 if he usuaUy expressed himself in the Yorksliire 
 dialect, it was because he chose to do so, preferring 
 his native Doric to a more refined vocabulary. " A 
 Yorkshire burr," he afl&rmed, " was as much better 
 than a Cockney's lisp, as a bull's beUow than a 
 ratton's squeak." 
 
 ;Mr. Yorke knew every one, and was known by 
 every one for miles round, yet his intimate acquain- 
 tance were very few. Himself thoroughly original, 
 he had no taste for what was ordinary : a racy, rough 
 character, high or low, ever found acceptance with 
 him ; a refined, insipid personage, however exalted 
 in station, was his aversion. He would spend an 
 hour any time in talking freely with a shrewd work- 
 man of his own, or with some queer, sagacious old 
 woman amongst his cottagers, wlien he would have 
 
 F 2
 
 68 SHIRLEY. 
 
 grudged a moment to a commonplace fine gentleman, 
 or to the most fashionable and elegant, if frivolous, 
 lady. His preferences on these points he carried to 
 an extreme, forgetting that there may be amiable 
 and even admirable characters amongst those who 
 cannot be original. Yet he made exceptions to his 
 own rule ; there was a certain order of mind, plain, 
 ingenuous, neglecting refinement, almost devoid of 
 intellectuality, and quite incapable of appreciating 
 what was intellectual in him ; but which, at the same 
 time, never felt disgust at his rudeness, was not 
 easily wounded by his sarcasm, did not closely ana- 
 lyze his sayings, doings, or opinions ; with which he 
 was peculiarly at ease, and, consequently, which he 
 peculiarly preferred. He was lord amongst such 
 characters. They, while submitting implicitly to his 
 influence, never acknowledged, because they never 
 reflected on, liis superiority ; they were quite tract- 
 able, therefore, without running the smallest danger 
 of being servile ; and their unthinking, easy, artless 
 insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient 
 to Mr. Yorke, as that of the chair he sat on, or of the 
 floor he trod. 
 
 It will have been observed that he was not quite 
 uncordial with Mr. Moore ; he had two or three 
 reasons for entertaining a faint partiality to that 
 gentleman. It may sound odd, but the first of these 
 was that Moore spoke English with a foreign, and 
 French with a perfectly pure accent ; and that his 
 dark, thin face, with its fine though rather wasted
 
 MR. TOEKE. 69 
 
 lines, liad a most anti- British and anti- Yorkshire 
 look. These points seem frivolous, unlikely to influ- 
 ence a character like Yorke's ; but, the fact is, they 
 recalled old, perhaps pleasurable associations; they 
 brought back his travelling, his youthful days. He 
 had seen, amidst Itahan cities and scenes, faces like 
 Moore's ; he had heard, in Parisian cafes and 
 theatres, voices like liis ; he was young then, and 
 when he looked at, and listened to the ahen, he 
 seemed yoimg again. 
 
 Secondly, he had known IMoore's father, and had 
 had deaUngs with him ; that was a more substantial, 
 though by no means a more agreeable tie; for, as 
 his firm had been connected with Moore's in busi- 
 ness, it had also, in some measure, been unphcated 
 in its losses. 
 
 Thirdly, he had found Robert himself a sharp man 
 of business. He saw reason to anticipate that he 
 would in the end, by one means or another, make 
 money, and he respected both his resolution and 
 acuteness, perhaps, also, his hardness. A fourth 
 circumstance which drew them together w^as that of 
 Mr. Yorke beingi: one of the o-uardians of the minor 
 on whose estate Hollow's-mill was situated ; conse- 
 quently Moore, in the course of his alterations and 
 improvements, had frequent occasion to consult 
 him. 
 
 As to the other guest now present in Mr. Yorke's 
 parlour, Mr. Helstone, between liim and his host 
 there existed a double antipathy ; the antipathy of
 
 70 SHIKLEY. 
 
 nature and that of circumstances. The free-thinker 
 hated the formalist ; the lover of liberty detested the 
 disciplinarian ; besides, it was said that in former 
 years, they had been rival suitors of the same 
 lady. 
 
 Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, 
 noted for his preference of sprightly and dashing 
 women : a showy shape and air, a lively wit, a ready 
 tongue, chiefly seemed to attract him. He never, 
 however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles, 
 whose society he sought, and all at once he seriously 
 fell in love with, and eagerly wooed a girl who pre- 
 sented a complete contrast to those he had liitherto 
 noticed ; a girl with the face of a Madonna ; a girl 
 of living marble ; stillness personified. Ko matter 
 that, when he spoke to her, she only answered him 
 in monosyllables; no matter that his sighs seemed 
 unheard, that his glances were unreturned, that she 
 never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his 
 jests, jmid him no respect and no attention; no 
 matter that she seemed the opposite of everything 
 feminine he had ever, in his whole life, been known 
 to admire ; for him j\Iary Cave was perfect, because 
 somehow, for some reason — no doubt he had a reason 
 — he loved her. 
 
 Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, 
 loved INIary too ; or, at any rate, he fancied her. 
 Several others admired her, for she was beautiful as 
 a monumental angel; but the clergyman was pre- 
 ferred for his office's sake ; that office probably in-
 
 MR. YOEKE. 71 
 
 vesting him with some of the illusion necessary to 
 allure to the commission of matrimony, and which 
 Miss Cave did not find in any of the young wool- 
 staplers, her other adorers, Mr. Helstone neither 
 had, nor professed to have Mr. Yorke's absorbing 
 passion for her; he had none of the humble reve- 
 rence which seemed to subdue most of her suitors ; 
 he saw her more as she really was than the rest did, 
 he was, consequent^, more master of her and him- 
 self. She accepted liim at the first offer, and they 
 were married. 
 
 Nature never intended Mr. Helstone to make a 
 very good husband, especially to a quiet wife. He 
 thought, so long as a woman v*^as silent, nothing 
 ailed her, and she wanted nothing. If she did not 
 complain of solitude, solitude, however continued, 
 could not be irksome to her. If she did not talk 
 and put herself forward, express a partiality for this, 
 an aversion to that, she had no partialities or 
 aversions, and it was useless to consult her tastes. 
 He made no pretence of comprehending women, or 
 comparing them with men: they were a different, 
 probably a very inferior order of existence ; a wife 
 could not be her husband's companion, much less his 
 confidant, much less his stay. His wife, after a year 
 or two, was of no great importance to him in any 
 shape ; and when she one day, as he thought, sud- 
 denly — for he had scarcely noticed her decline — but 
 as others thought gradually, took her leave of him 
 and of life, and there was only a still beautiful-
 
 72 SHIRLEY. 
 
 featured mould of clay left, cold and wliitc, in the 
 conjugal couch, he felt his bereavement — who shall 
 say how little ? Yet, perhaps, more than he seemed 
 to feel it, for he was not a man from whom grief 
 easily wrung tears. 
 
 His dry-eyed and sober mourning scandalized an 
 old houf?ekeeper, and likewise a female attendant, 
 who had waited upon !Mr.s. Hel^tone in her sickness, 
 and who, perhaps, had had opportunities of learning 
 more of the deceased lady's nature, of her capacity 
 for feeling and loving, than her husband knew : 
 they gossiped together over the corpse, related 
 anecdotes, with embellishments of her lingering 
 decline, and its real or supposed cause ; in short, 
 they worked each other up to some indignation 
 against the austere little man who sat examininoj 
 papers in an adjoining room, unconscious of what 
 opprobrium he was the object. 
 
 Mrs. HeLstone was hardly under the sod when 
 rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood that 
 she had died of a broken heart ; these magnified 
 quickly into reports of hard usage, and, finally, de- 
 tails of harsh treatment on the part of her husband ; 
 reports grossly untrue, but not the less eagerly 
 received on that account. ]Mr. Yorke heard them, 
 partly believed them. ^Uready, of course, he had 
 no friendly feeling to his successful rival ; though 
 himself a married man now, and united to a woman 
 who seemed a complete contrast to Mary Cave in 
 all re?x>ects, he could not forget the great disap-
 
 MR. TOr.KE. 73 
 
 pointment of his life, and when he heard that what 
 would have been so precious to him had been ne- 
 glected, perhaps abused bv another, he conceived for 
 that other a rooted and bitter animosity. 
 
 Of the nature and strength of this animosity, Mr. 
 Helstone was but half aware : he neither knew how 
 much Yorke had loved Mary Cave, what he had 
 felt on losing her, nor was he conscious of the 
 calumnies concerning his treatment of her, famihar 
 to every ear in the neighbourhood but his own. He 
 believed political and religious differences alone 
 separated him and ^Ir. Yorke ; had he known how 
 the case really stood, he would hardly have been 
 induced by any persuasion to cross his former rival's 
 threshold. 
 
 ]\Ir. Yorke did not resume his lecture of Robert 
 Moore ; the conversation ere long recommenced in a 
 more general form, though still in a somewhat die- 
 putative tone. The unrjuiet state of the country, 
 the various depredations lately committed on mill- 
 property in the district, supplied abundant matter 
 for disagreement, especially as each of the three 
 gentlemen present differed more or less in liis views 
 on these subjects. Mr. Helstone thought the mas- 
 ters aggrieved, the workpeople um-easonable ; he 
 condemned sweepingly the wide-spread spirit of 
 disaffection against constituted authorities, the grow- 
 ing indisposition to bear with patience evils he 
 regarded as inevitable : the cures he prescribed were
 
 74 SHIRLEY, 
 
 vigorous government interference, strict magisterial 
 vigilance ; when necessary, prompt military coercion. 
 
 Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this inter- 
 ference, vigilance, and coercion would feed those 
 who were himgry, give work to those who wanted 
 work and whom no man would hire : he scouted the 
 idea of inevitable evils ; he said public patience was 
 a camel, on whose back the last atom that could be 
 borne had already been laid, and that resistance was 
 now a duty : the wide-spread spirit of disaffection 
 against constituted authorities, he regarded as the 
 most promising sign of the times ; the masters, he 
 allowed, were truly aggrieved, but their main 
 grievances had been heaped on them by a "cor- 
 rupt, base, and bloody " government (these were Mr. 
 Yorke's epithets). jNIadmen like Pitt, demons like 
 Castiereagh, mischievous idiots like Perceval were 
 the tyrants, the curses of the country, the destroyers 
 of her trade. It was their infatuated perseverance 
 in an unjustifiable, a hopeless, a ruinous war which 
 had brought the nation to its present pass. It was 
 their monstrously oppressive taxation, it was the 
 infamous "Orders in Council" — the orio^inators of 
 which deserved impeachment and the scaffold, if 
 ever pubHc men did — that hung a mill-stone about 
 EnjT^land's neck. 
 
 " But where was the use of talking?" he de- 
 manded — " What chance was there of reason being 
 heard in a land that was king-ridden, priest-ridden, 
 peer-ridden — where a lunatic was the nominal
 
 ME. YORKE. 75 
 
 monarch, an unprincipled debauchee the real ruler ; 
 where such an insult to common sense as hereditary- 
 legislators was tolerated — where such a humbug as a 
 bench of bishops — such an arrogant abuse as a pam- 
 pered, persecuting established Church was endured 
 and venerated — where a standing army was main- 
 tained, and a host of lazy parsons and their pauper 
 families were kept on the fat of the land ? " 
 
 Mr. Helstone, rising up and putting on his shovel- 
 hat, observed in reply, " That in the course of liis 
 life he had met with two or three instances where 
 sentiments of this sort had been very bravely main- 
 tained so long as health, strength, and worldly pro- 
 sperity had been the allies of him who professed 
 them ; but there came a time,"' he said, ^' to all men, 
 ' when the keepers of the house should tremble ; 
 when they should ]3e afraid of that which is high, 
 and fear shoidd be in the way ;' and that time was 
 the test of the advocate of anarchy and rebellion, 
 the enemy of religion and order. Ere now," he 
 affirmed, he had been called upon to read " those 
 prayers our Church has provided for the sick, by the 
 miserable dying-bed of one of her most rancorous 
 foes ; he had seen such a one stricken with remorse, 
 soHcitous to discover a place for repentance, and 
 unable to find any, though he sought it carefully 
 with tears. He must forewarn IVIr. Yorke, that 
 blasphemy against God and the king was a deadly 
 sin, and that there was such a thing as 'judgment to
 
 76 SIIIKLEY. 
 
 Mr. Yorke " believed fully that there was such a 
 thing as judgment to come. If it were otherwise, it 
 would be difficult to imagine how all the scoundrels 
 who seemed triumphant in this world, who broke 
 innocent hearts with impunity, abused unmerited 
 privileges, were a scandal to honourable callings, 
 took the bread out of the mouths of the poor, brow- 
 beat the humble, and truckled meanly to the rich 
 and proud — were to be properly paid off, in such 
 coin as they had earned. But," he added, " when- 
 ever he got low-spirited about such like goings-on, 
 and their seeming success in this mucky lump of a 
 planet, he just reached down t' owd book (pointing 
 to a great Bible in the bookcase), opened it like at a 
 chance, and he was sure to light of a verse blazing 
 wi' a blue brimstone low that set all straight. He 
 knew," he said, "where some folk Avar bound for, 
 just as weel as if an angel, wi' great white wings, 
 had come in ower t' door-stone and told him." 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Helstone, collecting all his 
 dignity. " Sir — the great knowledge of man is to 
 know liimself, and the bourne whither his own steps 
 tend." 
 
 " Ay, ay ! you '11 recollect, Mr. Helstone, that 
 Ignorance was carried away from the very gates of 
 heaven, borne through the air, and thrust in at a 
 door in the side of the hill which led down to 
 hell." 
 
 " Xor have I forgotten, ]Mr. Yorke, that Yain- 
 Confidence, not seeing the way before liim, fell into
 
 ^m. Tor.KE. 77 
 
 a deep pit, wMcti was on purpose there made by the 
 prince of the grounds, to catch vain-glorious fools 
 withal, and was dashed to pieces with his fall." 
 
 " Xow,'' interposed Mr. ]Moore, who had hitherto 
 sat a silent but amused spectator of this wordy 
 combat, and whose indifference to the party poKtics 
 of the day, as well as to the gossip of the neighbour- 
 hood, made him an impartial, if apathttic, judge of 
 the merits of such an encounter — " you have both 
 sufficiently black-balled each other, and proved how 
 cordially you detest each other, and how wicked you 
 tliink each other. For my part, my hate is still 
 rimnino; in such a strono; current against the fellows 
 who have broken my frames, that I have none to 
 spare for my private acquaintance, and still less for 
 such a vao^ue thino; as a sect or a sfovemment : but 
 really, gentlemen, you both seem veiy bad, by your 
 own shewing ; worse than ever I suspected you to 
 be. I dare not stay all night with a rebel and 
 blasphemer, like you, Yorke : and I hardly dare ride 
 home with a cruel and tyrannical ecclesiastic, like 
 Mr. Helstone." 
 
 " I am going, however, Mr. Moore ; " said the 
 Hector sternly : " come with me or not, as you 
 please." 
 
 " Nay, he shall not have the choice — he shall go 
 with you," responded Yorke. ^* It 's midnight, and 
 past; and I'll have nob'dy staying up i' my house 
 any longer. Ye mun all go." 
 
 He rang the bell.
 
 78 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Deb," said He to the servant who answered it, 
 " clear them folk out o' t' kitchen, and lock t' doors, 
 and be off to bed. Here is your way, gentlemen," 
 he continued to his guests ; and, lighting them 
 through the passage, he fairly put them out at his 
 front-door. 
 
 They met their party hurrjang out pell-mell by 
 the back way ; their horses stood at the gate ; they 
 mounted, and rode off — Moore laughing at their 
 abrupt dismissal, Helstone deeply indignant thereat.
 
 HOLLOTV'S COTTAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 hollow's cottage. 
 
 Mooee's ojood spirits were still with him when he 
 rose next morning. He and Joe Scott had both 
 spent the night in the mill, availing themselves of 
 certain sleeping accommodations producible from 
 recesses in the front and back counting-houses : the 
 master, always an early riser, was up somewhat 
 sooner even than usual ; he awoke his man by sing- 
 ins: a French sono; as he made his toilet. 
 
 '• Ye 're not custen dahm, then, maister ? " cried 
 Joe. 
 
 '' Xot a stiver, mon garcon — which means, my 
 lad : — get up, and we '11 take a tuiTi tlu'ough the mill 
 before the hands come in, and I '11 explain my future 
 plans. We '11 have the machinery yet, Joseph : you 
 never heard of Bruce, perhaps ? " 
 
 " And th' arrand (spider) ? Yes, but I hev : 
 I Ve read th' histor}- o' Scotland, and happen knaw 
 as mich on't as ye ; and I understand ye to mean to 
 say ye '11 persevere."
 
 80 SniRLEY. 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Is there mony o' your mak' i' your country?" in- 
 quired Joe, as lie folded up liis temporary bed, and 
 put it away. 
 
 " In my country ! Which is my country ?" 
 
 " Why, France— isn't it?" 
 
 " Xot it, indeed I Tlie circumstance of the French 
 having seized Antwerp, where I was born, does not 
 make me a Frenchman." 
 
 "Holland, then?" 
 
 " I am not a Dutchman : now you are confound- 
 ing Antwerp with Amsterdam." 
 
 "Flanders?" 
 
 " I scorn the insinuation, Joe ! I, a Flamand ! 
 Have I a Flemish face ? — the clumsy nose standing- 
 out — the mean forehead falhng back — the pale blue 
 eyes ' a fleur de tete ? ' Am I aU body and no legs, like 
 a Flamand? But you don't know what they are 
 like — those Xetherlanders. Joe — I 'm an Anversois : 
 my mother was an Anversoise, though she came 
 of French lineage, which is the reason I speak 
 French." 
 
 " But your father w^ar Yorkshire, wliich maks ye 
 a bit Yorkshire too ; and onybody may see ye 're 
 akin to us, ye 're so keen o' making brass, and getting 
 forrards." 
 
 " Joe, you 're an impudent dog ; but I 've always 
 been accustomed to a boorish sort of insolence from 
 my youth up : the ' classe ouvriere ' — that is, the work- 
 ing people, in Belgium — bear themselves brutally
 
 hollow's cottage. 81 
 
 towards their employers ; and by hrvtally, Joe, I 
 mean hrutalement — which, perhaps, when properly 
 translated, should be rougldy.''' 
 
 " We alius speak our minds i' this country ; and 
 them young parsons and grand folk fro' London is 
 shocked at wer ^ incivility,'' and we like weel enow to 
 gi'e 'em sum mat to be shocked at, 'cause it 's sport to 
 us to watch 'em turn up the whites o' their een, and 
 spreed out their bits o' hands, like as they 're flayed 
 w^i' bogards, and then to hear 'em say, nipping off 
 their words short, like — ' Dear ! dear I Whet seveges ! 
 How very corse ! ' " 
 
 " You are savages, Joe ; you don't suppose you 're 
 civilized, do you ? " 
 
 ^^ Middling, middling, maister. I reckon 'at us 
 manufacturing lads i' th' north is a deal more intelli- 
 gent, and knaws a deal more nor th' farming folk 
 i' th' south. Trade sharpens wer wits; and them 
 that 's mechanics, like me, is forced to think. Ye 
 know, what wi' looking after machinery and sich 
 like, I 've getten into that way that when I see an 
 effect, I look straight out for a cause, and I oft lig 
 hold on't to purjjose ; and then I like reading, and I 'm 
 curious to knaw what them that reckons to govern 
 us aims to do for us and wi' us : and there 's many 
 'cuter nor me ; there 's many a one amang them 
 greasy chaps 'at smells o' oil, and amang them dyers 
 wi' blue and black skins, that has a long head, and 
 that can teU what a fooil of a law is, as well as ye or 
 old Yorke, and a deal better nor soft uns like 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 SHIRLEY. 
 
 Christopher Sykes o' Wliinbury, and greet hectoring 
 newts like yond' Irish Peter, Helstone's curate." 
 
 " You think yourself a clever fellow, I know, 
 Scott." 
 
 " Ay ! I 'm fairish ; I can tell cheese fro' chalk, 
 and I 'm varry weel aware that I 've improved sich 
 opportunities as I have had, a deal better nor some 
 'at reckons to be aboon me ; but there 's thousands i' 
 Yorkshire that's as good as me, and a two-three 
 that's better." 
 
 " You 're a great man — you 're a sublime fellow ; 
 but you 're a prig, a conceited noodle with it all, Joe ! 
 You need not to think that because you 've picked up 
 a little knowledge of practical mathematics, and 
 because you have found some scantling of the ele- 
 ments of chemistry at the bottom of a dyeing vat, 
 that therefore you 're a neglected man of science ; and 
 you need not to suppose that because the course of 
 trade does not always run smooth, and you, and such 
 as you, are sometimes short of w^ork and of bread, 
 that therefore your class are martyrs, and that the 
 whole form of government under which you live is 
 ■wrong. And, moreover, you need not for a moment 
 to insinuate that the virtues have taken refuge in 
 cottages and wholly abandoned slated houses. Let 
 me tell you, I particularly abominate that sort of 
 trash, because I know so well that human nature is 
 human nature everywhere, whether under tile or 
 thatch, and that in every specimen of hmnan nature 
 that breathes, vice and virtue are ever found blended,
 
 hollow's cottage. 83 
 
 in smaller or greater proportions, and that the propor- 
 tion is not determined by station. I have seen villains 
 who were rich, and I have seen villains who were 
 poor, and I have seen villains who were neither rich 
 nor poor, but who had realized Agar's wish, and 
 lived in fair and modest competency. The clock is 
 going to strike six : away with you, Joe, and ring 
 the miU beU." 
 
 It was now the middle of the month of February ; 
 by six o'clock, therefore, dawn was just beginning to 
 steal on night, to penetrate with a pale ray its brown 
 obscurity, and give a demi-translucence to its opaque 
 shadows. Pale enough that ray was on this particular 
 morning ; no colour tinged the east, no flush warmed 
 it. To see what a heavy lid day slowly lifted, what 
 a wan glance she fluno: along the hiUs, you would 
 have thought the sun's fire quenched in last night's 
 floods. The breath of this morning was chill as its 
 aspect : a raw wind stirred the mass of night-cloud, 
 and shewed, as it slowly rose — leaving a colomdess, 
 silver-gleaming ring all round the horizon — not blue 
 sky, but a stratum of paler vapour beyond. It had 
 ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden, and the 
 pools and rivulets were full. 
 
 The mill-windows were alight, the bell still rung- 
 loud, and now the little children came running in, in 
 too great a hurry, let us hope, to feel very much 
 nipped by the inclement au' : and, indeed, by contrast, 
 perhaps the morning appeared rather favourable to 
 them than otherwise ; for thev had often come to
 
 84 SHIRLEY. 
 
 their work that winter through snow-storms, through 
 heavy rain, through hard frost. 
 
 Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them 
 pass : he counted them as they went by ; to those 
 who came rather late he said a word of reprimand, 
 which was a Httle more sharply repeated by Joe 
 Scott when the lingerers reached the work-rooms. 
 Neither master nor overlooker spoke savagely ; they 
 were not savage men either of them, though it 
 appeared both were rigid, for they fined a deUnquent 
 who came considerably too late; Mr. Moore made 
 him pay his penny down ere he entered, and informed 
 him that the next repetition of the fault would cost 
 him twopence. 
 
 Rules, no doubt, are necessary in such cases, and 
 coarse and cruel masters will make coarse and cruel 
 rules, wliich, at the time we treat of at least, they 
 used sometimes to enforce tyrannically ; but, though 
 I describe imperfect characters (every character in 
 this book will be found to be more or less imperfect, 
 my pen refusing to draw anything in the model Hue), 
 I have not undertaken to handle degraded or utterly 
 infamous ones. Child-torturers, slave masters and 
 drivers, I consign to the hands of jailers ; the novehst 
 may be excused from sullying his page with the 
 record of their deeds. 
 
 Instead, then, of harrowing up my reader's soul, 
 and delighting his organ of Wonder, with effective 
 descriptions of stripes and scourgings, I am happy to 
 be able to inform him that neither Mr. Moore nor his
 
 85 
 
 overlooker ever struck a cliild in their mill. Joe had, 
 indeed, once very severely flogged a son of his own 
 for telling a lie and persisting in it, but, like his 
 employer, he was too phlegmatic, too calm, as well as 
 too reasonable a man, to make corporeal chastisement 
 other than the exception to his treatment of the 
 young. 
 
 Mr. IMoore haunted his mill, his mill-yard, his 
 dye-house, and his warehouse, till the sickly dawn 
 strengthened into day. The sun even rose, — at 
 least a white disk, clear, tintless, and almost chill- 
 looking as ice, — peeped over the dark crest of a hill, 
 changed to silver the livid edge of the cloud above it, 
 and looked solemnly down the whole length of the 
 den, or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are 
 at present hmited. It was eight o'clock ; the mill 
 lights were all extinguished; the signal was given 
 for breakfast ; the children, released for half an hour 
 from toil, betook themselves to the httle tin cans 
 which held their coffee, and to the small baskets 
 which contained their allowance of bread. Let us 
 hope they have enough to eat ; it would be a pity 
 were it otherwise. 
 
 And now, at last, Mr. JNIoore quitted the mill- 
 yard, and bent liis steps to his dwelling-house. It 
 was only a short distance from the factory, but the 
 hedge and high bank on each side of the lane which 
 conducted to it seemed to ^i\e it somethino; of the 
 appearance and feeling of seclusion. It was a small, 
 white-washed place, with a green porch over the
 
 86 SHIRLEY. 
 
 door; scanty brown stalks shewed in the garden 
 soil near this porch, and likewise beneath the win- 
 dows, — stalks budless and flowerless now, bnt gi\^ng 
 dim prediction of trained and blooming creepers for 
 summer days. A grass-plat and borders fronted the 
 cottage ; the borders presented only black mould yet, 
 except where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots of 
 snowdi'op or crocus peeped, green as . emerald, from 
 the earth. The spring was late ; it had been a 
 severe and prolonged winter ; the last deep snow had 
 but just disappeared before yesterday's rains ; on the 
 hills, indeed, white remnants of it yet gleamed, 
 flecking the hollows and crowning the peaks : the 
 lawn was not verdant, but bleached, as w^as the grass 
 on the bank, and under the hedge in the lane. 
 Three trees, gracefidly grouped, rose beside the 
 cottage ; they were not lofty, but having no rivals 
 near, they looked well and imposing where they 
 grew. Such was ]\Ir. Moore's home ; a snug nest 
 for content and contemplation, but one within wliich 
 the wings of action and ambition could not long lie 
 folded. 
 
 Its air of modest comfort seemed to possess no 
 particular attraction for its owner ; instead of enter- 
 ing the house at once, he fetched a spade from a 
 little shed and bes^an to work in the j^arden. For 
 about a quarter of an hour he dug on uninterrupted ; 
 at length, however, a window opened, and a female 
 voice called to him : — 
 
 " Eh, bien I Tu ne dcjeiincs pas ce matin?"
 
 hollow's cottage. 87 
 
 The answer and the rest of the conversation was 
 in French, but as this is an English book, I shall 
 translate it into English. 
 
 '^ Is breakfast ready, Hortense ? " 
 " Certainly ; it has been ready half an hour." 
 " Then I am ready, too ; I have a canine hunger.'' 
 He threw down his spade and entered the house : 
 the narrow passage conducted him to a small parlour, 
 where a breakfast of coffee and bread and butter, 
 with the somewhat un-English accompaniment of 
 stewed pears was spread on the table. Over these 
 viands presided the lady who had spoken from the 
 window. I must describe her before I go any 
 further. 
 
 She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore, perhaps 
 she was thirty -five, tall, and proportionately stout ; 
 she had very black hair, for the present twisted up 
 in curl-papers ; a high colour in her cheeks, a small 
 nose, a pair of little black eyes. The lower part of 
 her face was large in proportion to the upper ; her 
 forehead was small and rather corrugated ; she had 
 a fretful though not an ill-natured expression of 
 countenance; there was something in her whole 
 appearance one felt inclined to be half provoked 
 with, and half amused at. The strangest point was 
 her dress: a stuff petticoat and a striped cotton 
 camisole. The petticoat was short, displaying well 
 a pair of feet and ankles wliich left much to be 
 desired in the article of symmetry. 
 
 You will think I have depicted a remarkable
 
 88 SHIRLEY. 
 
 slattern, reader ; — not at all. Hortense Moore (she 
 was Mr. Moore's sister) was a very orderly, econo- 
 mical person : the petticoat, camisole, and curl-papers 
 were her morning costume, in which, of forenoons, 
 she had always been accustomed to " go her house- 
 hold ways" in her own country. She did not choose 
 to adopt English fashions because she was obliged to 
 live in Eng-land; she adhered to her old Bel^^ian 
 modes, quite satisfied that there was a merit in so 
 doing. 
 
 INIademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself, 
 an opinion not wholly undeserved, for she possessed 
 some good and sterling quahties; but she rather 
 over-estimated the kind and degree of these quahties, 
 and quite left out of the account sundry little defects 
 which accompanied them. You could never have 
 persuaded her that she was a prejudiced and narrow- 
 minded person, that she was too susceptible on the 
 subject of her own dignity and importance, and too 
 -apt to take offence about trifles ; yet all this was 
 true. However, where her claims to distinction were 
 not opposed, and where her prejudices were not 
 offended, she could be kind and friendly enough. To 
 her two brothers (for there was another Gerard 
 Moore besides Robert), she was very much attached. 
 As the sole remaining representatives of their de- 
 cayed family, the persons of both were almost sacred 
 in her eyes ; of Louis, however, she knew less than 
 of Robert ; he had been sent to England when a 
 mere boy, and had received liis education at an Eng-
 
 89 
 
 lish school. His education not beins; such as to 
 adapt him for trade^, perhaps, too, his natural bent 
 not inchning him to mercantile pursuits, he had, 
 when the blight of hereditary prospects rendered it 
 necessary for him to push liis own fortune, adopted 
 the very arduous and very modest career of a teacher ; 
 he had been usher in a school, and was said now to 
 be tutor in a private family. Hortense, when she 
 mentioned Louis, described him as having what she 
 called " des moyens," but as being too backward and 
 quiet ; her praise of Kobert was in a different strain, 
 less qualified; she was very proud of him; she re- 
 garded him as the greatest man in Europe ; all he 
 said and did was remarkable in her eyes, and she 
 expected others to behold him from the same point 
 of view ; nothing could be more irrational, monstrous, 
 and infamous, than opposition from any quarter to 
 Kobert, unless it were opposition to herself. 
 
 Accordingly, as soon as the said Robert was seated 
 at the breakfast table, and she had helped him to a 
 portion of stewed pears, and cut him a good-sized 
 Belgian tartine, she began to pour out a fiood of 
 amazement and horror at the transaction of last 
 night, the destruction of the frames. 
 
 " Quelle idee I to destroy them. Quelle action 
 honteuse ! On voyait bien que les ou\T:iers de ce 
 pays etaient a la fois betes et mechants. C'etait 
 absolument comme les domestiques Anglais, les ser- 
 vantes surtout : rien d'insupportable comme cette Sara, 
 par exemple ! "
 
 90 SHIRLEY. 
 
 '' She looks clean and industrious," Mr. Moore re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Looks ? I don't know how she looks ; and I do 
 not say that she is altogether dirty or idle : mais elle 
 est d'une insolence I She disputed with me a quarter 
 of an hour yesterday about the cooking of the beef; 
 she said I boiled it to rags, that English people would 
 never be able to eat such a dish as our bouilli, that 
 the bouillon was no better than greasy warm water, 
 and as to the choucroute, she affirms she cannot touch 
 it ! That barrel we have in the cellar — delightfully 
 prepared by my own hands — she termed a tub of hog 
 wash, which means food for pigs. I am harassed 
 with the girl, and yet I cannot part with her lest 
 I should get a worse. You are in the same position 
 with your workmen, — pauvre cher frere I " 
 
 " I am afraid you are not very happy in England, 
 Hortense." 
 
 " It is my duty to be happy where you are, 
 brother ; but otherwise, there are certainly a thou- 
 sand things which make me regret om' native town. 
 All the world here appears to me ill-bred (mal-eleve). 
 I find my habits considered ridiculous ; if a girl out 
 of your mill chances to come into the kitchen and 
 find me in my jupon and camisole preparing dinner 
 (for you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single 
 dish), she sneers. If I accept an invitation out to 
 tea, which I have done once or twice, I perceive I 
 am put (juite into the background ; I have not that 
 attention paid me which decidedly is my due; of
 
 91 
 
 what an excellent family are the Gerards, as we 
 know, and the IMoores also I They have a right 
 to claim a certain respect, and to feel wounded when 
 it is withheld from them. In Antwerp, I was always 
 treated with distinction ; here, one would think that 
 when I open my lips in company, I speak English 
 with a ridiculous accent, whereas I am quite assured 
 that I pronounce it perfectly." 
 
 " Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich ; in 
 England we were never known but poor.^' 
 
 " Precisely, and thus mercenary are mankind. 
 Again, dear brother, last Sunday, if you recollect, 
 was very wet ; accordingly, I went to church in my 
 neat black sabots, objects one would not indeed wear 
 in a fashionable city ; but which in the country I 
 have ever been accustomed to use for walking in 
 dirty roads. BeKeve me, as I paced up the aisle, 
 composed and tranquil, as I am always, four ladies, 
 and as many gentlemen, laughed and hid their faces 
 behind their prayer-books." 
 
 " Well, well ! don't put on the sabots again. I 
 told you before I thought they were not quite the 
 thing for this country." 
 
 " But, brother, they are not connnon sabots, such 
 as the peasantry wear. I tell you, they are sabots 
 noirs, tres propres, tres convenables. At Mons and 
 Leuze — cities not very far removed from the elegant 
 capital of Brussels— it is very seldom that the re- 
 spectable people wear anything else for walking in 
 winter. Let any one try to wade the mud of the
 
 92 SHIRLEY. 
 
 Flemish chaussees in a pair of Paris brodequins, on 
 m'en dirait des nouvelles ! " 
 
 " Never mind Mons and Leuze, and the Flemish 
 chaussees ; do at Rome as the Komans do ; and as to 
 the camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about 
 them either. I never see an English lady dressed in 
 such ixarments. Ask Caroline Helstone." 
 
 " Caroline I / ask Caroline ? / consult her 
 about my dress ? It is she who on all points should 
 consult me; she is a child." 
 
 " She is eighteen, or at the least seventeen ; old 
 enough to knov," all about gowns, petticoats, and 
 chaussures." 
 
 " Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother; 
 do not make her of Inore consequence than she 
 ought to be. At present she is modest and unas- 
 suming : let us keep -her so." 
 
 '^ With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?" 
 
 " She will come at ten, as usual, to take her 
 French lesson." 
 
 '• You don't find that she sneers at you, do you?" 
 
 " She does not, she appreciates me better than 
 any one else here ; but then she has more intimate 
 opportunities of knowing me : she sees that I have 
 education, intelligence, manner, principles; all, in 
 short, which belongs to a person well-born and well- 
 bred." 
 
 " Are you at all fond of her ?" 
 
 " For fond — T cannot say : I am not one wlio is 
 prone to take violent fancies, and, consequently, my
 
 hollow's cottage. 93 
 
 friendsliip is the more to be depended on. I have a 
 regard for her as my relative ; her position also 
 inspires interest, and her conduct as my pupil has 
 hitherto been such as rather to enhance than di- 
 minish the attachment that springs from other 
 causes." 
 
 " She behaves pretty well at lessons ? " 
 
 " To me she behaves very well ; but you are con- 
 scious, brother, that I have a manner calculated to 
 repel over-familiarity, to win esteem, and to com- 
 mand respect. Yet, possessed of penetration, I per- 
 ceive clearly that Caroline is not perfect ; that there 
 is much to be desired in her." 
 
 '^ Give me a last cup of coiFee, and while I am 
 drinking it amuse me with an account of her 
 faults." 
 
 " Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your 
 breakfast with relish, after the fatiguing night you 
 have passed. Caroline, then, is defective ; but, with 
 my forming hand and almost motherly care, she may 
 improve. There is about her an occasional some- 
 thing — a reserve, I think — which I do not quite 
 like, because it is not sufficiently girlish and sub- 
 missive ; and there are glimpses of an unsettled 
 hurry in her nature, which put me out. Yet she is 
 usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful 
 indeed sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall 
 make her uniformly sedate and decorous, without 
 being unaccountably pensive. I ever disapprove 
 what is not intelligible."
 
 94 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " I don't understand your account in the least; 
 what do you mean by ^ unsettled hurries,' for 
 instance ?" 
 
 " An example will, perhaps, be the most satis- 
 factory explanation. I sometimes, you are aware, 
 make her read French poetry by way of practice in 
 pronunciation. She has, in the course of her lessons, 
 gone through much of Corneille and Racine, in a 
 very steady, sober spirit, such as I approve. Occa- 
 sionally she showed, indeed, a degree of languor 
 in the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking 
 rather of apathy than sobriety, and apathy is what 
 I cannot tolerate in those who have the benefit of 
 my instructions ; besides, one should not be apathe- 
 tic in studying standard works. The other day I 
 put into her hands a volume of short fugitive pieces. 
 I sent her to the window to learn one by heart, and 
 when I looked up I saw her turning the leaves over 
 impatiently, and curHng her lip, absolutely with 
 scorn, as she surveyed the little poenis cursorily. 
 I chid her. 'j\Ia cousine,' said she, 'tout cela 
 m'ennuie a la mort.' I told her this was improper 
 lano*ua<T^e. — ' Dieu I ' she exclaimed. ' II n'y a done 
 pas deux ligncs de po'esie dans toutc la litterature 
 francaise?' I infjuired what she meant. She 
 begged my pardon Avitli proper submission. Ere 
 long she was still ; I saw her smiling to herself over 
 the book ; she began to learn assiduously. In half 
 an hour she came and stood before me, presented the 
 volume, folded her hands, as I always require her
 
 hollow's cottage. 9b 
 
 to do, and commenced the repetition of that short 
 thing by Chenier, ' La Jeune Captive.' If you had 
 heard the manner in which she went through this, 
 and in which she uttered a few incoherent comments 
 when she had done, you would have known what 
 I meant by the phrase 'unsettled hurry.' One 
 would have thouo;ht Chenier was more mo^dns: than 
 all Racine and all Corneille. You, brother, who 
 have so much sagacity, will discern that this dis- 
 proportionate preference argues an ill-regulated 
 mind ; but she is fortunate in a preceptress. I will 
 give her a system, a method of thought, a set of 
 opinions ; I will give her the perfect control and 
 guidance of her feelings." 
 
 "Be sure you- do, Hortense : here she comes. 
 That was her shadow passed the window, I believe." 
 " Ah ! truly. She is too early — ^half an hour be- 
 fore her time. — My child, what brings you here 
 before I have breakfasted ? " 
 
 Tliis question was addressed to an individual who 
 now entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a 
 winter mantle, the folds of which were gathered with 
 some grace round an apparently slender figure. 
 
 " I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, 
 and how Kobert was, too. I was sure you would be 
 both grieved by what happened last night. I did 
 not hear till this morning : my uncle told me at 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Ah ! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with 
 us ? Your uncle sympathizes with us ?"
 
 96 SHIRLEY. 
 
 > 
 
 '' My uncle is very angry ; but he was with 
 Robert, I believe : was he not ? Did he not go with 
 you to Stilbro' Moor?" 
 
 " Yes : we set out in very martial style, Caroline ; 
 but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half- 
 way." 
 
 " Of course, nobody was hurt ?" 
 
 " ^^ly, no ; only Joe Scott's wrists were a little 
 galled with being pinioned too tightly behind his 
 back." 
 
 " You were not there ? You were not with the 
 waggons when they were attacked ? " 
 
 " Xo : one seldom has the fortune to be present at 
 occurrences at which one would particularly wish to 
 assist." 
 
 "AYhere are you going this morning? I saw 
 Mm-gatroyd saddling your horse in the yard." 
 
 " To Wliinbury : it is market-day." 
 
 " Mr. Yorke is going, too : I met him in his gig. 
 Come home with him." 
 
 "AYhy?" 
 
 " Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes 
 Mr. Yorke ; at least, poor people do not dislike 
 him." 
 
 " Therefore he would be a protection to me, who 
 am hated ? " 
 
 " Who are misunderstood : that, probably, is the 
 word. Shall you be late ? — ^^Yill he be late, cousin 
 Hortense ? " 
 
 " It is too probable : he has often much business
 
 hollow's cottage. 97 
 
 to transact at Whinbury. , Have you broiiglit your 
 exercise-book, cMlcl ? " 
 
 ^^ Yes. What time will you return, Robert?" 
 
 '^I generally return at seven. Do you Avisli me 
 to be at home earlier ?" 
 
 " Try rather to be back by six. It is not abso- 
 lutely dark at six now; but by seven daylight is 
 quite gone." 
 
 " And what danger is to be apprehended, Caroline, 
 when daylight is gone ? ^Yhat peril do you conceive 
 comes as the companion of darkness, for me ? " 
 
 " I am not sure that I can define my fears ; but 
 we all have a certain anxiety at present about our 
 friends. My uncle calls these times dangerous : he 
 says, too, that mill-owners are unpopular." 
 
 " And I one of the most unpopular ? Is not that 
 the fact ? You are reluctant to speak out plainly, 
 but at heart you think me liable to Pearson's fate, 
 who was shot at — not, indeed, from behind a hedge, 
 but in his own house, through his staircase-window, 
 as he was goino' to bed." 
 
 "Anne Pearson showed me the buUet in the 
 chamber-door," remarked Caroline, gravely, as she 
 folded her mantle, and arranged it and her muff on a 
 side-table. " You know," she continued, " there is a 
 hedge all the way along the road from here to AVhin- 
 bury, and there are the Fieldhead plantations to 
 pass ; but you will be back by six — or before ?" 
 
 " Certainly he will," affirmed Hortense. " And 
 now, my child, prepare your lessons for repetition, 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 98 SHIRLEY. 
 
 while I put the peas to soak for the puree at 
 dinner." 
 
 With this direction, she left the room. 
 
 " You suspect I have many enemies then, Caro- 
 line?" said Mr. Moore; "and, doubtless, you know 
 me to be destitute of friends ? " 
 
 ^' Not destitute, Kobert. There is your sister, 
 your brother Louis — whom I have never seen — there 
 is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle ; besides, of 
 course, many more." 
 
 Robert smiled. " You would be puzzled to name 
 your ' many more,' " said he, " But show me your 
 exercise-book. ^Yhat extreme pains you take with 
 the writing ! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care : 
 she wants to form you in all things after the model 
 of a Flemish school-girl. What life are you destined 
 for, CaroUne ? What will you do with your French, 
 drawing, and other accomplishments when they are 
 acquired?" 
 
 " You may well say, when they are acquired ; for, 
 as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I 
 knew precious little. As to the life I am destined 
 for, I cannot tell: I suppose, to keep my uncle's 
 house, till — " she hesitated. 
 
 "TiUwhat? Till he dies?" 
 
 " No. How harsh to say that ! I never think of 
 his dying : he is only fifty-five. But till — ^in short, 
 tUl events offer other occupations for me." 
 
 " A remarkably vague prospect ! Are you content 
 with it?"
 
 hollow's cottage. 99 
 
 "I -used to be, formerly. Children, you know, 
 have little reflection, or rather their reflections run 
 on ideal themes. There are moments now when I 
 am not quite satisfied." 
 
 "^Yhy?" 
 
 " I am making no money — earning nothing." 
 
 "You come to the point, Lina; you, too, then, 
 wish to make money ? " 
 
 " I do : I should like an occupation ; and if I were 
 a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one. I see 
 such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and 
 making my way in life." 
 
 " Go on : let us hear what way." 
 
 " I could be apprenticed to your trade — the cloth- 
 trade : I could learn it of you, as we are distant rela- 
 tions. I would do the counting-house work, keep 
 the books, and write the letters, while you went to 
 market. I know you greatly desire to be rich, in 
 order to pay your father's debts ; perhaps I could 
 help you to get ricL" 
 
 " Help me ? You should think of yourself." 
 
 " I do think of myself; but must one for ever think 
 only of one's self?" 
 
 " Of whom else do I think ? Of whom else dare 
 I think ? The poor ought to have no large sympa- 
 thies ; it is their duty to be narrow." 
 
 " No, Eobert " 
 
 "Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessarily selfish, 
 contracted, grovelling, anxious. Xow and then a 
 poor man's heart, when certain beams and dews visit 
 
 II 2
 
 100 SHIRLEY. 
 
 it, may swell like the budding vegetation in yonder 
 garden on this spring day, may feel ripe to evolve in 
 foliage — perhaps blossom ; but he must not encour- 
 age the pleasant impulse ; he must invoke prudence 
 to check it, with that frosty breath of hers, which is 
 as nipping as any north wind." 
 
 " No cottage would be happy then." 
 
 " '\\Tien I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean 
 the natural, habitual poverty of the working-man, as 
 the embarrassed penury of the man in debt; my 
 grub-worm is always a straitened, struggling, care- 
 worn tradesman." 
 
 " Cherish hope, not anxiety. Certain ideas have 
 become too fixed in your mind. It may be presump- 
 tuous to say it, but I have the impression that there 
 is something wrong in your notions of the best means 
 
 of attaining happiness ; as there is in " Second 
 
 hesitation. 
 
 " I am all ear, Caroline." 
 
 " In — (courage ! let me speak the truth) — in your 
 manner — mind, I say only manner — to these Yorkshire 
 workpeople." 
 
 " You have often wanted to tell me that, have you 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes ; often — very often." 
 
 " The faults of my manner are, I think, only nega- 
 tive. I am not proud : what has a man in my posi- 
 tion to be proud of? I am only taciturn, phlegmatic, 
 and joyless;" 
 
 " As if your living cloth-dressers were all machines
 
 hollow's cottage. 101 
 
 like your frames and shears : in your own house you 
 seem different." 
 
 " To those of my own house I am no alien, which 
 I am to these English clowns. I might act the 
 benevolent with them, but acting is not my forte. I 
 find them irrational, perverse ; they hinder me when 
 I long to hurry forward. In treating them justly, I 
 fulfil my whole duty towards them." 
 
 " You don't expect them to love you, of course ? " 
 
 " Xor wish it." 
 
 "Ah I" said the monitress, shaking her head, and 
 heaving a deep sigh. With this ejaculation, indicative 
 that she perceived a screw to be loose somewhere, 
 but that it was out of her reach to set it right, she 
 bent over her grammar, and sought the rule and 
 exercise for the day. 
 
 " I suppose I am not an affectionate man, CaroHne ; 
 the attachment of a very few suffices me." 
 
 " If you please, Robert, will you mend me a pen or 
 two before you go ?" 
 
 " First, let me rule your book, for you always con- 
 trive to draw the lines aslant. . . . There now. 
 . . . And now for the pens : you like a fine one, 
 I think?" 
 
 " Such as you generally make for me and Hortense ; 
 not your own broad points." 
 
 " If I were of Louis's calling, I might stay at home 
 and dedicate this morning to you and your studies ; 
 whereas I must spend it in Sykes' wool-warehouse." 
 
 " You will be making money."
 
 102 SHIRLEY. 
 
 '' More likely losing it." 
 
 As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled 
 and bridled, was brought up to the garden-gate. 
 
 *' There, Fred, is ready for me ; I must go. I '11 
 take one look to see what the spring has done in the 
 south border, too, first." 
 
 He quitted the room, and went out into the garden- 
 ground behind the miU. A sweet fringe of young 
 verdure and opening flowers — snowdrop, crocus, even 
 priroi'ose — bloomed in the sunshine imder the hot 
 wall of the factory. Moore plucked here and there a 
 blossom and leaf, tiU he had collected a little bouquet ; 
 he returned to the parlour, pilfered a thread of silk 
 from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and 
 laid them on Caroline's desk. 
 
 " Now, good-morning." 
 
 " Thank you, Robert ; it is pretty ; it looks, as it 
 lies there, like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky : 
 o^ood-mominjT. " 
 
 He went to the door —stopped — opened his lips as 
 if to speak — said nothing, and moved on. He passed 
 through the wicket, and mounted his horse : in a 
 second, he had flung himself from the saddle again, 
 transferred the reins to jNIm'gatroyd, and re-entered 
 the cottage. 
 
 " I forgot my gloves," he said, appearing to take 
 something from the side-table ; then, as an impromptu 
 thought, he remarked, " You have no binding en- 
 gagement at home, perhaps, Caroline?" 
 
 " I never have : some children's socks, wliich Mrs.
 
 103 
 
 Ramsden has ordered, to knit for the Jew's basket ; 
 but they will keep." 
 
 " Jew's basket be sold ! ^ever was utensil 
 
 better named. Anything more Jewish than it — its 
 contents, and their prices — cannot be conceived : but 
 I see something, a very tiny curl, at the corners of 
 your lip, which tells me that you know its merits as 
 weU as I do. Forget the Jew's basket, then, and 
 spend the day here as a change. Your uncle won't 
 break his heart at your absence ? " 
 
 She smiled. « Ko." 
 
 "The old Cossack I I daresay not," muttered 
 Moore. " Then stay and dine with Hortense ; she 
 will be glad of yoiu' company ; I shall return in good 
 time. We will have a little reading in the evening : 
 the moon rises at half-past eight, and I will walk up 
 to the rectory with you at nine. Do you agree ?" 
 
 She nodded her head ; and her eyes lit up. 
 
 Moore lingered yet two minutes : he bent over 
 Carohne's desk and glanced at her grammar, he 
 fingered her pen, he lifted her bouquet and played 
 with it ; his horse stamped impatient ; Fred. Murga- 
 troyd hemmed and coughed at the gate, as if he 
 wondered what in the world his master was doinnf. 
 " Good -morning, " again said Moore, and finally 
 vanished. 
 
 Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to 
 her surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced 
 her exercise.
 
 104 SIIIKLEY, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 COrvIOLAXUS. 
 
 Mademoiselle ]Mooee had that morning a some- 
 what absent-minded pupil. Caroline forgot^ again 
 and again, the explanations which were given to 
 her ; however, she still bore with unclouded mood 
 the chidings her inattention brought upon her. Sit- 
 ting in the sunshine, near the Avindow, she seemed 
 to receive with its warmth a kind influence, which 
 made her both happy and good. Thus disposed, 
 she looked her best, and her best was a pleasing 
 vision. 
 
 To her had not been denied the gift of beauty ; 
 it was not absolutely necessary to know her in order 
 to like her ; she was fair enough to please, even at 
 the first view. Her shape suited her ag^ ; it was 
 girlish, light, and pliant ; every curve was neat, 
 every limb proportionate : her face was expressive 
 and gentle ; her eyes were handsome, and gifted at 
 times with a winning beam that stole into the heart, 
 with a language that spoke softly to the aftections. 
 Her mouth was very pretty ; she had a delicate skin.
 
 CORIOLANUS. 105 
 
 and a fine flow of brown liair, which she knew how 
 to arrange with taste ; curls became her, and she 
 possessed them in picturesque profusion. Her style 
 of dress announced taste in the wearer; very unob- 
 trusive in fashion, far from costly in material, but 
 suitable in colour to the fau^ complexion with which 
 it contrasted, and in make to the sHght form which 
 it di'aped. Her present winter garb was of merino, 
 the same soft shade of brown as her hau' ; the little 
 collar romid her neck lay over a pink ribbon, and 
 Avas fastened with a pink knot : she wore no other 
 decoration. 
 
 So much for Caroline Helstone's appearance ; as 
 to her character or intellect, if she had any, they 
 must speak for themselves in due time. 
 
 Her connections are soon explained. She was the 
 child of parents separated soon after her birth, in 
 consequence of disagreement of disposition. Her 
 mother was the half-sister of Mr. ^loore's father; 
 thus — though there was no mixture of blood — she 
 was, in a distant sense, the cousin of Robert, Louis, 
 and Hortense. Her father was the brother of Mr. 
 Helstone — a man of the character friends desu'e not 
 to recall, after death has once settled aU earthly 
 accounts. He had rendered his wife unhappy : the 
 reports which were known to be true concerning 
 hmi, had given an au' of probability to those which 
 were falsely circulated respecting liis better-prin- 
 cipled brother. Caroline had never known her 
 mother, as she was taken from her in infancy, and
 
 106 SHIRLEY. 
 
 had not since seen her ; her father died compara- 
 tively young, and her uncle, the Rector, had for some 
 years been her sole guardian. He was not, as we 
 are aware, much adapted, either by nature or habits, 
 to have the charge of a young girl : he had taken 
 little trouble about her education ; probably, he 
 would have taken none if she, finding herself ne- 
 glected, had not grown anxious on her own account, 
 and asked, every now and then, for a little attention, 
 and for the means of acquiring such amount of 
 knowledge as could not be dispensed with. Still, 
 she had a depressing feeling that she was inferior, 
 that her attaimnents were fewer than were usually 
 possessed by girls of her age and station ; and very 
 glad was she to avail herself of the kind oifer made 
 by her cousin Hortense, soon after the arrival of 
 the latter at Hollow's-mill, to teach her French and 
 fine needlework. INIdlle. Moore, for her part, 
 delighted in the task, because it gave her impor- 
 tance ; she liked to lord it a little over a docile yet 
 quick pupil. She took Caroline precisely at her 
 own estimate, as an irregularly -taught, even igno- 
 rant girl ; and when she found that slic made rapid 
 and eager progress, it was to no talent — no appli- 
 cation in the scholar, she ascribed the improvement, 
 but entirely to her own superior method of teach- 
 ing ; when she found that Caroline, unskilled in 
 routine, had a knowledge of her own — desultory but 
 varied, the discovery caused her no surjirise, for she 
 still imagined that from her conversation had the
 
 CORIOLANUS. 107 
 
 girl unawares gleaned these treasures : she thought 
 it even when forced to feel that her pupil knew 
 much on subjects whereof she knew little : the idea 
 was not logical, but Hortense had perfect faith 
 in it. 
 
 Mademoiselle, who prided herself on possessing 
 ^^un esprit positif," and on entertaining a decided 
 preference for dry studies, kept her young cousin 
 to the same as closely as she could. She worked her 
 unrelentingly at the grammar of the French lan- 
 guage, assigning her, as the most improving exercise 
 she could devise, interminable "analyses logiques." 
 These " analyses" were by no means a source of par- 
 ticular pleasure to Caroline ; she thought she could 
 have learned French just as well without them, and 
 grudged excessively the time spent in pondering over 
 " propositions, principales, et incidentes ;" in deciding 
 the "incidente determinative" and the "incidente 
 applicative;" in examining whether the proposition 
 was "pleine," " elliptique," or "impHcite." Some- 
 times she lost herself in the maze, and when so lost, 
 she would, now and then (while Hortense was rum- 
 maging her drawers up-stairs, — an unaccountable 
 occupation in which she spent a large portion of 
 each day, arranging, disarranging, rearranging and 
 counter-arranging) — carry her book to Robert in 
 the counting-house, and get the rough place made 
 smooth by his aid. Mr. Moore possessed a clear, 
 tranquil brain of liis own ; almost as soon as he 
 looked at Caroline's little difficulties they seemed to
 
 108 SHIRLEY. 
 
 dissolve beneath Ids eye : in two minutes he would 
 explain aU ; in two words give the key to the puzzle. 
 She thought if Hortense could only teach like him, 
 how mucli faster she might learn! Repaying him 
 by an admiring and grateful smile, rather shed at his 
 feet than lifted to his face, she would leave the mill 
 reluctantly to go back to the cottage, and then, 
 while she completed the exercise, or worked out the 
 sum (for Mdlle. Moore taught her arithmetic, too,) 
 she would wish nature had made her a boy instead of 
 a girl, that she might ask Robert to let her be his 
 clerk, and sit with him in the counting-house, instead 
 of sitting with Hortense in the parlour. 
 
 Occasionally — ^but this happened very rarely — she 
 spent the evening at Hollow's cottage. Sometimes 
 during these visits, Moore was away, attending a 
 market; sometimes he was gone to Mr. Yorke's; 
 often he was engaged with a male visitor in another 
 room; but sometimes, too, he was at home, disen- 
 c;a2:ed, free to talk w^ith Caroline. When this was 
 the case, the evening hours passed on wings of light ; 
 they were gone before they were counted. There 
 was no room in England so pleasant as that small 
 parlour when the three cousins occupied it. Hor- 
 tense, when she was not teaching, or scolding, or 
 cooking, was far from ill-humoured; it was her 
 custom to relax towards evening, and to be kind to 
 her young English kinswoman. There was a means, 
 too, of rendering her dehghtful, by inducing her to 
 take her guitar and sing and play ; she then became
 
 CORIOLAXUS. 109 
 
 quite good-natured; and as she played with skill, 
 and had a well-toned voice, it was not disagreeable 
 to listen to her: it would have been absolutely 
 agreeable, except that her formal and self-important 
 character modulated her strains, as it impressed her 
 manners and moulded her countenance. 
 
 Mr. Moore, released from the business-yoke, was, if 
 not lively himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's 
 liveUness, a complacent listener to her talk, a ready 
 respondent to her questions. He was something 
 agreeable to sit near, to hover round, to address and 
 look at. Sometimes he w^as better than this, — 
 almost animated, quite gentle and friendly. 
 
 The drawback was, that by the next morning he 
 was sure to be frozen up again ; and however much 
 he seemed, in his cj[uiet way, to enjoy these social 
 evenings, he rarely contrived their recurrence. This 
 circmnstance puzzled the inexperienced head of his 
 cousin. " If I had a means of happiness at my 
 command," she thought, " I would employ that means 
 often ; I would keep it bright with use, and not let 
 it lie for weeks aside, till it gets rusty." 
 
 Yet she was careful not to put in practice her 
 own theory. Much as she liked an evening -v^isit to 
 the cottage, she never paid one unasked. Often, 
 indeed, when pressed by Hortense to come, she 
 would refuse, because Robert did not second, or Ijut 
 slightly seconded the request. This morning was 
 the first time he had ever, of his own unprompted 
 will, given ber an invitation; and then he had
 
 110 SHIKLEY. 
 
 spoken so kindly, that in hearing liim she had 
 received a sense of happiness sufficient to keep her 
 glad for the whole day. 
 
 The morning passed as usual. Mademoiselle, ever 
 breathlessly busy, spent it in bustling from kitchen 
 to parlour — now scolding Sarah, now looking over 
 Caroline's exercise or hearing her repetition-lesson. 
 However faultlessly these tasks were achieved, she 
 never commended : it was a maxim with her that 
 praise is inconsistent with a teacher's dignity, and 
 that blame, in more or less unqualified measure, is 
 indispensable to it. She thought incessant reprimand, 
 severe or slight, quite necessary to the maintenance 
 of her authority ; and if no possible error was to be 
 found in the lesson, it was the pupil's carriage, or air, 
 or di'css, or mien, which required correction. 
 
 The usual affray took place about the dinner, 
 which meal, when Sarah at last brought it into the 
 room, she almost flung ujion the table, with a look 
 that expressed quite plainly : " I never dished such 
 stuff i' my life afore ; it 's not fit for dogs." Not- 
 withstanding Sarah's scorn, it was a savoury repast 
 enough. The soup was a sort of puree of dried peas, 
 which Mademoiselle had prepared amidst bitter 
 lamentations that in this desolate country of England 
 no haricot beans were to be had. Then came a dish 
 of meat — nature unknown, but supposed to be mis- 
 cellaneous — singularly chopped up with crumbs of 
 bread, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, 
 and baked in a mould ; a queer, but by no means
 
 CORIOLANUS. Ill 
 
 unpalatable dish. Greens, oddly bruised, formed the 
 accompanying vegetable ; and a pate of fruit, con- 
 served after a receipt devised by Madame Gerard 
 Moore's "grand' mere," and from the taste of which it 
 appeared probable that "melasse" had been substi- 
 tuted for sugar, completed the dinner. 
 
 Caroline had no objection to this Belgian cookery: 
 indeed, she rather liked it for a change, and it was 
 w^ell she did so, for had she evinced any disrelish 
 thereof, such manifestation would have injured her 
 in Mademoiselle's good graces for ever; a positive 
 crime might have been more easily pardoned than a 
 symptom of distaste for the foreign comestibles. 
 
 Soon after dinner CaroHne coaxed her governess- 
 cousin up-stairs to di'ess : this manoeuvre required 
 management. To have hinted that the jupon, 
 camisole, and curl-papers were odious objects, or 
 indeed other than quite meritorious points, would 
 have been a felony. Any premature attempt to urge 
 their disappearance was therefore unwise, and would 
 be likely to issue in the persevering wear of them 
 during the whole day. Carefully avoiding rocks and 
 quicksands, however, the pupil, on pretence of 
 requiring a change of scene, contrived to get the 
 teacher aloft, and, once in the bed-room, she per- 
 suaded her that it was not worth while returning 
 thither, and that she might as well make her toilette 
 now ; and while Mademoiselle delivered a solemn 
 homily on her own surpassing merit in disregarding 
 all frivolities of fashion, Caroline denuded her of the
 
 112 SHIKLEY. 
 
 camisole, invested her with a decent gown, arranged 
 her collar, hair, &c. and made her quite presentable. 
 But Hortcnse would put the finishing touches her- 
 self, and these finishing touches consisted in a thick 
 handkerchief tied round the throat, and a large, 
 servant-like black apron, wliich spoiled everything. 
 On no account would Mademoiselle have appeared in 
 her own house without the thick handkerchief and 
 the voluminous apron : the first was a positive mat- 
 ter of morality — it was quite improper not to wear a 
 fichu ; the second was the ensign of a good house- 
 wife — she appeared to think that by means of it she 
 somehow effected a large saving in her brother's 
 income. She had, with her own hands, made and 
 presented to Caroline similar equipments ; and the 
 only serious quarrel they had ever had, and which 
 still left a soreness in the elder cousin's soul, had 
 arisen from the refusal of the younger one to accept 
 of and profit by these elegant presents. 
 
 " I wear a high dress and a collar," said Caroline, 
 " and I should feel sufibcated with a handkercliief in 
 addition ; and my short aprons do quite as well as 
 that very long one : I would rather make no 
 change." 
 
 Yet Hortense, by dint of perseverance, would pro- 
 bably have compelled her to make a change, had not 
 !Mr. Moore chanced to overhear a dispute on the 
 subject, and decided that Caroline's little aprons 
 would suffice, and that, in his opinion, as she was 
 still but a child, she might for the present dispense
 
 COKIOLAXUS. 113 
 
 witli the fichu, especially as her curls were long, and 
 almost touched her shoulders. 
 
 There was no appeal against Robert's opinion, 
 therefore his sister was compelled to yield ; but she 
 disapproved entirely of the piquant neatness of 
 CaroHne's costume, and the lady-like grace of her 
 appearance: something more sohd and homely, she 
 would have considered " beaucoup plus convenable." 
 
 The afternoon was devoted to sewing. Made- 
 moiselle, like most Belgian ladies, was specially 
 skilful with her needle. She by no means thought 
 it waste of time to devote unnumbered hours to fine 
 embroidery, sight-destroying lace-work, marvellous 
 netting and knitting, and, above all, to most 
 elaborate stocking-mending. She would give a day 
 to the mending of two holes in a stocking any time, 
 and think her " mission" nobly AilfiUed when she 
 had accomplished it. It was another of Caroline's 
 troubles to be condemned to learn this foreign style 
 of darning, which was done stitch by stitch so as 
 exactly to imitate the fabric of the stocking itself; a 
 wearifu' process, but considered by Hortense Gerard, 
 and by her ancestresses before her for long genera- 
 tions back, as one of the first " duties of woman." 
 She herself had had a needle, cotton, and a fearfully 
 torn stocking put into her hand wliile she yet wore a 
 child's coif on her little black head : her " hauts faits" 
 in the darning line had been exhibited to company 
 ere she was six years old, and when she first dis- 
 covered that Carohne was profoundly ignorant of 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 SHIRLEY. 
 
 this most essential of attainments, she could have 
 wept with pity over her miserably neglected youth. 
 
 No time did she lose in seeking up a hopeless pair 
 of hose, of which the heels were entirely gone, and 
 in setting the ignorant English girl to repair the 
 deficiency : this task had been commenced two years 
 ago, and Caroline had the stockings in her work-bag 
 yet. She did a few rows every day, by way of 
 penance for the expiation of her sins : they were a 
 grievous burden to her, she would much have liked 
 to put them in the fire : and once Mr. Moore, who 
 had observed her sitting and sigliing over them, had 
 proposed a private incremation in the counting- 
 house, but to this proposal Caroline knew it would 
 have been impolitic to accede — the residt could only 
 be a fresh pair of hose, probably in worse condition : 
 .she adhered, therefore, to the ills she knew. 
 
 All the afternoon the two ladies sat and sewed, 
 till the eyes and fingers, and even the spirits of one 
 of them were weary. The sky since dinner had 
 darkened ; it had begun to rain again, to pour fast : 
 secret fears bei^an to steal on Caroline that Robert 
 would be persuaded by INIr. Sykes or Mr. Yorke to 
 remain at Whinbury till it cleared, and of that there 
 appeared no present chance. Five o'clock struck, 
 and time stole on ; still the clouds streamed : a sigh- 
 ing wind whispered in the roof-trees of the cottage ; 
 day seemed abeady closing ; the parlour-fire shed on 
 the clear hearth a glow ruddy as at twilight. 
 
 " It will not be fair till the moon rises," pro-
 
 COEIOLAXUS. llo 
 
 nounced ^Mademoiselle IMoore ; " consequentlv, I 
 feel assured that mv l^rother will not return till then : 
 indeed, I should be sorry if he did. We will have 
 coffee : it would be vain to wait for him." 
 
 '' I am tired — may I leave my work now, cousin ? " 
 
 " You may, since it grows too dark to see to do it 
 well. Fold it up ; put it carefully in yoiu* bag ; 
 then step into the kitchen, and desire Sarah to bring 
 in the gouter, or tea, as you call it.'' 
 
 " But it has not yet struck six : he may still 
 come." 
 
 " He . will not, I tell you. I can calcidate his 
 movements. I understand my brother." 
 
 Suspense is irksome, disappointment Ijitter. All 
 the world has, some time or other, felt that. Caro- 
 line, obedient to orders, passed into the kitchen. 
 Sarah was makino; a dress for herself at the table. 
 
 " You are to bring in coffee," said the young lady, 
 in a spmtless tone ; and then she leaned her arm 
 and head against the kitchen mantelpiece, and hung 
 listlessly over the fire. 
 
 '• How low you seem. Miss ! But it "s all because 
 your cousin keeps you so close to work. It 's a 
 shame ! " 
 
 '• Xotliing of the kind, Sarah," was the brief 
 reply. 
 
 " Oh ! but I know it is. You 're fit to cry just 
 this minute, for nothing else but because you 've sat 
 still the whole day. It would make a kitten dull to 
 be mewed up so." 
 
 I 2
 
 116 SHIRLEY. 
 
 ^^ Sarah, does your master 'often come home early 
 from market when it is wet ? " 
 
 " Never, harcUy ; but just to-day, for some reason, 
 he has made a difference." 
 
 " What do- you mean ? " 
 
 " He is come : I am certain I saw Murgatroyd 
 lead his horse into the yard by the back-way, when 
 I went to get some water at the pump five minutes 
 since. He was in the counting-house with Joe 
 Scott, I believe." 
 
 " You are mistaken." 
 
 "What should I be mistaken for? I know his 
 horse, surely ?" 
 
 " But you did not see himself?" 
 
 " I heard him speak, though. He was saying 
 something to Joe Scott about having settled all con- 
 cerninsr wavs and means, and that there woidd be a 
 new set of frames in the mill before another week 
 passed ; and that this time he would get four soldiers 
 from Stilbro' barracks to c^uard the was^o-on." 
 
 " Sarah, are you making a gown ? " 
 
 " Yes : is it a handsome one ?" 
 
 " Beautiful ! Get the coffee ready. I '11 finish 
 cutting out that sleeve for you ; and I '11 give you 
 some trimmino: for it. I have some narrow satin 
 ribbon of a colour that will just match it." 
 
 « You 're very kind, ]Miss." 
 
 "Be quick, there 's a good girl ; but first put your 
 master's shoes on the hearth : he will take his boots 
 off when he comes in. I hear him — ^he is coming."
 
 CORIOLAls^US. 117 
 
 " jVIiss ! you 're cutting the stuff wrong." 
 
 " So I am ; but it is only a snip : there is no harm 
 clone." 
 
 The kitchen-door opened; Mr. Moore entered, 
 very wet and cold. Caroline half turned from her 
 dressmaking occupation, but renewed it for a mo- 
 ment, as if to gain a minute's time for some purpose. 
 Bent over the dress, her face was hidden ; there was 
 an attempt to settle her features and veil their ex- 
 pression, wliich failed: when she at last met Mr. 
 Moore, her countenance beamed. 
 
 " We had ceased to expect you : they asserted you 
 would not come," she said. 
 
 " But I promised to return soon : you expected 
 me, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Xo, Bobert : I dared not when it rained so fast. 
 And you are wet and chilled — change everything : if 
 you took cold, I should — we should blame ourselves 
 in some measure." 
 
 " I am not wet through : my riding-coat is water- 
 proof. Dry shoes are all I require. — There .... 
 the fire is pleasant after faciag the cold wind and 
 rain for a few miles." 
 
 He stood on the kitchen-hearth ; Caroline stood 
 beside him. jVIr. Moore, while enjoying the genial 
 glow, kept his eyes directed towards the ghttering 
 brasses on the shelf above. Chancing for an instant 
 to look down, liis glance rested on an uplifted face, 
 flushed, smiling, happy, shaded with silky curls, lit 
 with fine eyes. Sarah was gone into the parlour
 
 118 SHIRLEY. 
 
 with the tray : a lecture from her mistress detained 
 her there. Moore placed his hand a moment on his 
 young cousin's shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on 
 her forehead. 
 
 " Oh ! " said she, as if the action had unsealed her 
 lips, " I was miserable when I thought you would 
 not come : I am almost too happy now. Are you 
 happy, Robert ? Do you like to come home ?" 
 
 " I think I do ; to-night, at least." 
 
 *^ Are you certain you are not fretting about your 
 frames, and your business, and the war ?" 
 
 " Xot just now." 
 
 ^' Are you positive you don't feel PIoUow's cottago 
 too small for you, and narrow and dismal?" 
 
 " At this moment, no." 
 
 " Can you affirm that you are not bitter at heart 
 because rich and great people forget you ? " 
 
 "No more questions. You are mistaken if you 
 think I am anxious to curry favour with rich and 
 great people. I only want means — a position — a 
 career." 
 
 *^ Which j^our own talent and goodness shall win 
 you. You were made to be great — you shall be 
 great." 
 
 " I wonder now, if you spoke honestly out of your 
 heart, what receipt you would give me for acquiring 
 this same greatness ; but I know it — better than you 
 know it yourself. "Would it be efficacious ? would it 
 work? Yes — poverty, misery, bankruptcy. Oh! 
 life is not what you think it, Lina ! "
 
 CORIOLAXUS. 119 
 
 " But you are what I think you." 
 
 "I am not." 
 
 ^^ You are better, tlien ?" 
 
 "Far worse." 
 
 '^' Xo ; far better. I know you are good." 
 
 ^^ How do you know it ? " 
 
 " You look so ; and I feel you are so." 
 
 " Where do you feel it ?" 
 
 " In my heart." 
 
 " Ah ! you judge me with your heart, Lina ; you 
 should judge me with your head." 
 
 " I do ; and then I am quite proud of you. Eobert, 
 you cannot teU aU my thoughts about you." 
 
 Mr. Moore's dark face mustered colour ; liis lips 
 smiled, and yet were compressed ; his eyes hmghed, 
 and yet he resolutely knit his brow. 
 
 " Tliink meanly of me, Lina," said he. " Men, in 
 general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything 
 of which you have an idea ; I make no pretension to 
 be better than my fellows." 
 
 " If you did, I should not esteem you so much ; it 
 is because you are modest that I have such confidence 
 in your merit." 
 
 "Are you flattering me?" he demanded, tm-ning 
 sharply upon her, and searching her face with an eye 
 of acute penetration. 
 
 " No," she said, softly, laughing at his sudden 
 quickness. She seemed to tliink it unnecessary to 
 proffer any eager disavowal of the charge. 
 
 " You don't care whether I think you flatter me or 
 not?"
 
 120 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " You are so secure of your own intentions ? " 
 
 '' I suppose so." 
 
 "What are they, Caroline?" 
 
 "Only to ease my inind by expressing for once 
 part of what I think ; and then to make you better 
 satisfied with yourself." 
 
 " By assuring me that my kinswoman is my sincere 
 friend?" 
 
 " Just so ; I am your sincere friend, Robert." 
 
 " And I am — what chance and change shall make 
 me, Lina." 
 
 '' Not my enemy, however ? " 
 
 The answer was cut short by Sarali and her 
 mistress entering the kitchen together in some com- 
 motion. They had been improving the time which Mr. 
 Moore and Miss Helstone had spent in dialogue by 
 a short dispute on the subject of "cafe au lait," which 
 Sarah said was the queerest mess she ever saw, and 
 a waste of God's good gifts, as it was " the nature of 
 coffee to be boiled in water;" and which Mademoiselle 
 affirmed to be " un breuvage royal," a thousand times 
 too good for the mean person who objected to it. 
 
 The former occupants of the kitchen now withdrew 
 into the parlour. Before Hortense followed them 
 tliither, Caroline had only time again to question, 
 "Not my enemy, Robert?" And Moore, quaker- 
 like, had replied with another query, " Could I be ?" 
 and then, seating himself at the table, had settled 
 Caroline at his side.
 
 COKIOLAXUS. 121 
 
 Caroline scarcely heard Mademoiselle's explosion 
 of wrath when she rejoined them ; the long declama- 
 tion about the " conduite indigne de cette mechante 
 creature," sounded in her ear as confusedly as the 
 agitated rattling of the china. Robert laughed a 
 little at it, in very subdued sort, and then, pohtely 
 and calmly entreating his sister to be tranquil, assured 
 her that if it would yield her any satisfaction, she 
 should have her choice of an attendant amongst all 
 the girls in his mill; only he feared they would 
 scarcely suit her, as they were most of them, he was 
 informed, completely ignorant of household work; 
 and pert and self-willed as Sarah was, she was per- 
 haps no worse than the majority of the women of her 
 class. 
 
 Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this conjecture : 
 according to her, "ces paysannes Anglaises etaient 
 toutes insupportables." What would she not give for 
 some " bonne cuisiniere Anversoise," with the high 
 cap, short petticoat, and decent sabots proper to her 
 class : something better, indeed, than an insolent 
 coquette in a flounced gown, and absolutely without 
 cap ! (for Sarah, it appears, did not partake the 
 opinion of St. Paul, that " it is a shame for a woman 
 to go with her head uncovered ; " but, holding rather 
 a contrary doctrine, resolutely refused to imprison in 
 linen or muslin the plentiful tresses of her yeUow 
 hair, which it was her wont to fasten up smartly with 
 a comb behind, and on Sundays to wear curled in 
 front.)
 
 122 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?" 
 asked Mr. Moore, who — stern in public — was on the 
 whole very kind in private. 
 
 *' Merci du cadeau I" was the answer. " An Ant- 
 werp girl would not stay here ten days, sneered at 
 as she would be by all the young coquines in your 
 factory ;" then softening, " you are very good, dear 
 brother — excuse my petulance — but truly, my 
 domestic trials are severe, yet they are probably 
 my destiny ; for I recollect that our revered mother 
 experienced similar sufferings, though she had the 
 choice of aU the best servants in Antwerp: do- 
 mestics are in all countries a spoiled and unruly 
 set." 
 
 Mr. Moore had also certain reminiscences about 
 the trials of his revered mother. A o-ood mother 
 she had been to him, and he honoured her memory, 
 but he recollected that she kept a hot kitchen of 
 it in Antwerp, just as his faithful sister did here in 
 England. Thus, therefore, he let the subject drop, 
 and when the coffee-service was removed, proceeded 
 to console Hortense by fetching her music-book and 
 guitar ; and, having arranged the ribbon of the 
 instrument round her neck with a quiet fraternal 
 kindness he knew to be all-powerful in soothing her 
 most ruffled moods, he asked her to give him some of 
 their mother's favourite songs. 
 
 Nothing refines like affection. Family jarring vul- 
 garizes — family union elevates. Hortense, pleased 
 with her brother, and "grateful to him, looked, as she
 
 coEiOLAxrs. 123 
 
 touclied her guitar, almost graceful, almost hand* 
 some ; her every-day fretful look was gone for a 
 moment, and was replaced by a " sourire plein de 
 bonte." She sang the songs he asked for, with 
 feeling; they reminded her of a parent to whom 
 she had been tridy attached ; they reminded her of 
 her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline 
 listened with naiVe interest ; this augmented her 
 good-humour ; and the exclamation at the close of 
 the song, ^' I wish I could sing and play like Hor- 
 tensel" achieved the business, and rendered her 
 charmino: for the evenino;. 
 
 It is true, a little lecture to Caroline followed, on 
 the vanity of icishinrj, and the duty of trying. ^' As 
 Rome," it was suggested, ^- had not been built in a 
 day, so neither had Mademoiselle Gerard Moore's 
 education been completed in a week, or by merely 
 wishing to be clever. It was effort that had accom- 
 plished that great work : she was ever remarkable 
 for her perseverance, for her industry: her masters 
 had remarked that it was as delightful as it was un- 
 common to find so much talent united with so much 
 solidity, and so on. Once on the theme of her own 
 merits. Mademoiselle was fluent. 
 
 Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she 
 took her knitting and sat down tranquil. Drawn 
 curtains, a clear fire, a softly shining lamp gave now 
 to the little parlour its best — its evening charm. It 
 is probable that the three there present felt this 
 charm : they all looked happy.
 
 124 SHIRLEY. 
 
 "What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. 
 Moore, returning to his seat beside his cousin. 
 
 " What shall we do, Robert?" repeated she play- 
 fully. " You decide." 
 
 " Notplay at chess?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Nor drausfhts, nor backo^ainnion ? " 
 
 " No — no ; we both hate silent games that only 
 keep one's hands employed, don't we ?" 
 
 " I beheve we do : then, shall we talk scan- 
 dal?" 
 
 " About whom ^ Are we sufficiently interested 
 in anybody to take a pleasure in puUing their cha- 
 racter to pieces?" 
 
 " A question that comes to the point. For my 
 part — unamiable as it sounds — I must say, no." 
 
 " And I, too. But it is strange — though we want 
 no third — fourth, I mean (she hastily and with con- 
 trition glanced at Hortense), living person among us 
 — so selfish we are in our happiness — though we 
 don't want to tliink of the present existing world, it 
 would be pleasant to go back to the past ; to hear 
 people that have slept for generations in graves that 
 are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and 
 fields, speak to us and tell us their thoughts, and 
 impart their ideas." 
 
 " Who shall be the speaker ? What language 
 sliall he utter ? French?" 
 
 " Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, 
 nor so solemnly, nor so impressively as your EngHsh
 
 COEIOLAXUS. 125 
 
 ancestors, Eobert. To-night you shall be entirely 
 English : you shall read an English book." 
 
 « An old English book ?" 
 
 " Yes, an old English book, one that you like ; 
 and I will choose a part of it that is toned quite in 
 harmony with something in you. It shall waken 
 your nature, fill your mind with music : it shall pass 
 like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its 
 strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Eobert; but 
 the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep 
 it, and it is often silent. Let glorious WiUiam come 
 near and touch it ; you will see how he will 
 draw the English power and melody out of its 
 chords." 
 
 ^' I must read Shakspeare ? " 
 
 " You must have his spirit before you : you must 
 hear his voice with your mind's ear : you must take 
 some of his soul into yours." 
 
 " With a ^dew to making me better ; is it to operate 
 like a sermon ? " 
 
 " It is to stir you ; to give you new sensations. 
 It is to make you feel your life strongly, not only 
 your virtues, but your vicious, perverse points." 
 
 "Dieul que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, who 
 hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, 
 and had not much attended to what was said, but 
 whose ear these two strong words caught with a 
 tweak. 
 
 " Never mind her, sister : let her talk ; now just 
 let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes
 
 126 SHIRLEY. 
 
 to come down hard upon your brother sometimes ; it 
 amuses me, so let her alone." 
 
 Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been 
 rummaorinjT the book-case, returned with a book. 
 
 " Here 's Shakspeare," she said, " and there 's 
 Coriolanus. Kow, read, and discover by the feel- 
 ings the reading w^ill give you at once how low and 
 how high you are." 
 
 " Come then, sit near me, and correct when I 
 mispronounce." 
 
 "I am to be the teacher then, and you my 
 pupil ? " 
 
 "Ainsi, soit-il!" 
 
 "And Shakspeare is our science, since we are 
 going to study?" 
 
 " It appears so." 
 
 '^And you are not going to be French, and 
 sceptical, and sneering ? You are not going to think 
 it a siorn of wisdom to refuse to admire ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " If you do, Robert, I '11 take Shakspeare away ; 
 and I 'U shrivel up within myself, and put on my 
 bonnet and o-o home." 
 
 " Sit down ; here I begin." 
 
 ^' One minute, if you please, brother," inteiTupted 
 Mademoiselle, "when the gentleman of a family 
 reads, the ladies should always sew. CaroUne, dear 
 child, take your embroidery ; you may get three 
 sprigs done to-night." 
 
 Caroline looked dismayed. " I can't see by lamp-
 
 CORIOLANUS. 127 
 
 light ; my eyes are tired, and I can't do two things 
 well at once. If I sew, I cannot listen ; if I listen, 
 I cannot sew." 
 
 " Fi, done ! Quel enfantillage !" began Hortense. 
 ]VIr. Moore, as usual, suavely interposed. 
 
 "Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this 
 evening. I ^^-ish her whole attention to be fixed on 
 my accent, and to ensure this, she must follow the 
 reading with her eyes ; she must look at the book." 
 
 He placed it between them, reposed his arm on 
 the back of Caroline's chau*, and thus began to read. 
 
 The very first scene in " Coriolanus" came wdth 
 smart relish to his intellectual palate, and still as 
 he read he warmed. He delivered the haughty 
 speech of Caius Marcius to the starring citizens 
 with unction; he did not say he thought his irra- 
 tional pride right, but he seemed to feel it so. 
 Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile. 
 
 " There 's a vicious point hit already," she said, 
 " you sympathize with that proud patrician who 
 does not sympathize with his famished fellow-men, 
 and insults them ; there, go on." He proceeded. 
 The warlike portions did not rouse him much ; he 
 said all that was out of date, or should be ; the spirit 
 displayed was barbarous, yet the encounter single- 
 handed between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius, he 
 delighted in. As he advanced, he forgot to criti- 
 cise; it was evident he appreciated the power, the 
 truth of each portion; and, stepping out of the 
 narrow hue of private prejudices, began to revel
 
 128 SHIRLEY. 
 
 in the large picture of human nature, to feel the 
 reality stamped upon the characters who were speak- 
 ing from that page before him. 
 
 He did not read the comic scenes well, and Caro- 
 line, taking the book out of his hand, read these 
 parts for liim. From her he seemed to enjoy them, 
 and indeed she gave them with a spirit no one 
 could have expected of her, with a pithy expression 
 with which she seemed gifted on the spot, and for 
 that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in 
 passing, that the general character of her conver- 
 sation that evening, whether serious or sprightly, 
 grave or gay, was as of something untaught, un- 
 studied, intuitive, fitful ; when once gone, no more 
 to be reproduced as it had been, than the glancing 
 ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, 
 than the colour or form of the sun-set cloud, than 
 the fleeting and glittering ripple varying the flow of 
 a rivulet. 
 
 Coriolanus in glory ; Coriolanus in disaster ; Corio- 
 lanus banished, followed like giant-shades one after 
 the other. Before the vision of the banished man, 
 Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the 
 hearth of Aufidius's hall, facing the image of great- 
 ness fallen, but greater than ever in that low estate. 
 He saw " the grim appearance," the dark face 
 " bearing command in it," " the noble vessel with 
 its tackle torn." With the revenge of Caius ]Mar- 
 cius, INIoore perfectly sympathized ; he was not 
 gcandalized by it, and again Caroline whispered.
 
 COEIOLAXUS. 129 
 
 ^^ There, I see anotlier glimpse of brotherliood in 
 error." 
 
 The march on Rome, the mother's supplication, 
 the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions 
 to good, which ever must be the case in a nature 
 worthy the epithet of noble, the rage of Aufidius 
 at what he considered his ally's weakness, the death 
 of Coriolanus, the final sorrow of his great enemy ; 
 all scenes made of condensed truth and streno-th, 
 came on in succession, and carried with them in 
 their deep, fast flow, the heart and mind of reader 
 and listener. 
 
 "Xow, have you felt Shakspeare?" asked Caro- 
 line, some ten minutes after her cousin had closed 
 the book. 
 
 '' I think so." 
 
 " And have you felt anything in Coriolanus like 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Perhaps I have.'' 
 
 "Was he not faulty as well as great?" 
 
 Moore nodded. " And what was his fault ? 
 "WTiat made him hated by the citizens ? What 
 caused him to be banished by his countrymen?" 
 
 "What do you think it was ?" 
 
 " I ask again — 
 
 ' Whether was it pride, 
 Which out of daily fortune ever taints 
 The happy man ? whether defect of judgment, 
 To fail in the disposing of those chances 
 Which he was lord of ? or whether nature, 
 Not to be other than one thing ; not moving 
 TOL. I. K
 
 130 SHIELEY. 
 
 From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace 
 Even with the same austerity and garb 
 As he controlled the war ?' " 
 
 " "Well, answer yourself, Spbynx." 
 
 "It was a spice of all: and you must not be 
 proud to your workpeople ; you must not neglect 
 chances of soothing them, and you must not be 
 of an inflexible nature, uttering a request as 
 austerely as if it were a command." 
 
 " That is the moral you tack to the play. ^Yhat 
 puts such notions into your head ? " 
 
 *'A wish for your good, a care for your safety, 
 dear Robert, and a fear caused by many things 
 which I have heard lately, that you will come to 
 harm." | 
 
 " ^Yho tells you these things ?" 
 
 " I hear my uncle talk about you : he praises 
 your hard spirit, your determined cast of mind, 
 your scorn of low enemies, your resolution not ' to 
 truckle to the mob,' as he says." 
 
 " And would you have me truckle to them?" 
 
 " No, not for the world : I never wish you to 
 lower yourself; but somehow, I cannot help think- 
 ing it unjust to include all poor working people 
 under the general and insulting name of ^ the mob,' 
 and continually to think of them and treat them 
 haughtily." 
 
 " You arc a little democrat, Caroline : if your 
 uncle knew, what would he say?" 
 
 " I rarely talk to my uncle, as you know, and
 
 COEIOLANUS. 131 
 
 never about sucli things : he thinks everything but 
 sewing and cooking above women's comprehension, 
 and out of their line." 
 
 ^^ And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects 
 on which you advise me ? " 
 
 '^ As far as they concern you, I comprehend them. 
 I know it would be better for you to be loved by 
 your workpeople than to be hated by them, and 
 I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their 
 regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to 
 me and Hortense, should we love you ? When you 
 are cold to me, as you are sometimes, can I venture 
 to be aiFectionate in return ?" 
 
 '^ Now, Lina, I 've had my lesson both in lan- 
 guages;#,nd ethics, with a touch on politics ; it is 
 your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken 
 by a little piece of poetry you learned the other 
 day, a piece by poor Andi-e Chenier — ^ La Jeune 
 Captive,' do you remember it still?" 
 
 ^' I think so." 
 
 ^^ Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind 
 your accent : especially let us have no Enghsh 
 u's." 
 
 Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous 
 voice, but gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated 
 the sweet verses of Clienier :* the last three stanzas 
 she rehearsed well. 
 
 * Caroline had never seen Millevoye's ** Jeune ?.Ialade," otherwise 
 she would have known that there is a better poem in the French 
 language than Chenier's ** Captive;" a poem worthy to have been 
 
 K 2
 
 132 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin ! 
 Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin 
 
 J'ai passe le premiers a peine. 
 Au banquet de la vie a peine commence, 
 Un instant seulement mes levres ont presse 
 
 La coupe en mes mains encore pleine. 
 
 " Je ne suis qu'au printemps — ^je veux voir la moisson ; 
 Et comme ie soleil, de saison en saison, 
 
 Je veux achever mon annee. 
 Brillante sur ma tige, et I'honneur du jardin 
 Je n'ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin, 
 
 Je veux achever ma journee ! " 
 
 Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, 
 but soon he furtively raised them : leaning back in 
 his chair, he could watcJh Caroline without her per- 
 ceiving where his gaze was fixed. Her cheek had a 
 colour, her eyes a light, her countenance an ex- 
 pression, this evening, which would have made even 
 plain features striking ; but there was not the 
 grievous defect of plainness to pardon in her case. 
 The sunshine was not shed on rough barrenness ; it 
 fell on soft bloom. Each lineament was turned with 
 grace ; the Avhole aspect was pleasing. At the pre- 
 sent moment — animated, interested, touched — she 
 might be called beautiful. Such a face was calcu- 
 lated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of 
 esteem, the distant one of admiration ; but some 
 feeling more tender, genial, intimate : friendsliip, 
 
 written in English, — an inartificial, genuine, impressive strain. To 
 how many other samples of French verse can the same epithets be 
 applied with truth ?
 
 COKIOLANUS, 133 
 
 perhaps — affection, interest. "WTien she had finished, 
 she turned to Moore, and met his eye. 
 
 "Is that pretty well repeated?" she inquired, 
 smiling like any happy, docile child. 
 
 " I really don't kno\Y." 
 
 " Why don't you know ? Have you not listened ? " 
 
 "Yes — and looked. You are fond of poetry, 
 Lina?" 
 
 " AYhen I meet with real poetry, I cannot rest till 
 I have learned it by heart, and so made it partly 
 mine." 
 
 Mr. Moore now sat silent for several minutes. It 
 struck nine o'clock ; Sarah entered, and said that 
 IVIr. Helstone's servant was come for Miss Caroline. 
 
 " Then the evening is gone already," she ob- 
 served ; " and it will be long, I suppose, before I 
 pass another here." 
 
 Hortense had been for some time nodding over 
 her knitting ; fallen into a doze now, she made no 
 response to the remark. 
 
 "You would have no objection to come here 
 oftener of an evening ? " inquired Robert, as he took 
 her folded mantle from the side-table, where it still 
 lay, and carefully wrapped it round her. 
 
 " I like to come here ; but I have no desire to be 
 intrusive. I am not hinting to be asked : you must 
 understand that." 
 
 " Oh ! I understand thee, child. You sometimes 
 lecture me for wishing to be rich, Lina ; but if I 
 were rich, you should hve here always : at any rate.
 
 134 SHIRLEY. 
 
 you should live with mc wherever my habitation 
 might be." 
 
 " That would be pleasant ; and if you were poor 
 — ever so poor — it would still be pleasant. Good- 
 night, Kobert." 
 
 " I promised to walk with you up to the Rectory." 
 
 " I know you did ; but I thought you had forgot- 
 ten, and I hardly knew how to remind you, though I 
 wished to do it. But would you like to go ? It is a 
 cold night; and, as Fanny is come, there is no 
 necessity — " 
 
 " Here is your muiF — don't wake Hortense — 
 come." 
 
 The half-mile to the Rectory was soon traversed. 
 They parted in the garden without kiss, scarcely 
 with a pressure of hands ; yet Robert sent his cousin 
 in excited and joyously troubled. He had been 
 singularly kind to her that day : not in phrase, com- 
 pliment, profpssion ; but in manner, in look, and in 
 soft and friendly tones. 
 
 For himself, he came home grave, almost morose. 
 As he stood leaning on his own yard-gate, musing in 
 the watery moonhght, all alone — the hushed, dark 
 mill before liim, the hill-environed hollow round — ^he 
 exclaimed, abruptly : — 
 
 " This won't do ! There 's weakness — there 's 
 downright ruin in all this. However," he added, 
 dropping his voice, '^ the phrenzy is quite temporary. 
 I know it very well : I have had it before. It will 
 be gone to-morrow."
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 13^ 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 
 
 Caroline Helstoxe was just eighteen years old ; 
 and at eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be 
 commenced. Before that time, we sit listening to a 
 tale, a marvellous fiction ; dehghtfid sometimes, and 
 sad sometimes ; almost always unreal. Before that 
 time, our world is heroic ; its inhabitants half-di^dne 
 or semi-demon ; its scenes are dream-scenes : darker 
 woods, and stranger hills ; brighter skies, more dan- 
 gerous waters; sweeter flowers, more tempting fruits; 
 wider plains, drearier deserts, sunnier fields than are 
 found in nature, overspread our enchanted globe. 
 What a moon we gaze on before that time ! How 
 the trembling of our hearts at her aspect bears wit- 
 ness to its unutterable beauty I As to our sun, it is 
 a burning heaven — the world of gods. 
 
 At that time — at eighteen, di'awing near the con- 
 fines of illusive, void dreams. Elf-land lies behind us, 
 the shores of Beality rise in front. Tliese shores are 
 yet distant : they look so blue, soft, gentle, we long 
 to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness
 
 136 SHIRLEY* 
 
 beneath the azure, as of spring meadows ; we catch 
 glimpses of silver lines, and imagine the roll of living 
 waters. Could we but reach this land, we think to 
 hunger and thirst no more ; whereas many a wilder- 
 ness, and often the flood of Death, or some stream of 
 sorrow as cold and almost as black as Death, is to be 
 crossed ere true bhss can be tasted. Every joy that 
 life gives must be earned ere it is secured ; and how 
 hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled 
 for great prizes. The heart's blood must gem with 
 red beads the brow of the combatant, before the 
 wreath of victory rustles over it. 
 
 At eighteen, we are not aware of this. Hope, 
 when she smiles on us, and promises happiness to- 
 morrow, is implicitly beheved ; — Love, when he 
 comes wandering like a lost angel to our door, is at 
 once admitted, welcomed, embraced : his quiver is 
 not seen ; if his arrows penetrate, their wound is like 
 a thrill of new life : there are no fears of poison, 
 none of the barb which no leech's hand can extract : 
 that perilous passion — an agony ever in some of its 
 phases ; with many, an agony throughout — is beheved 
 to be an unqualified good : in sliort, at eighteen, the 
 school of Experience is to be entered, and her hum- 
 bling, crushing, grinding, but yet purifying and in- 
 vigorating lessons are yet to be learnt. 
 
 Alas, Experience I No other mentor has so wasted 
 and frozen a face as yours : none wears a robe so 
 black, none bears a rod so heavy, none with hand 
 so inexorable draws the novice so sternly to liis task.
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 137 
 
 and forces him with authority so resistless to its 
 acquirement. It is by your instructions alone that 
 man or woman can ever find a safe track through 
 life's wilds : without it, how they stumble, how they 
 stray ! On what forbidden grounds do they intrude, 
 down what dread declivities are they hurled ! 
 
 Carohne, having been convoyed home by Robert, 
 had no wish to pass what remained of the evening 
 with her uncle : the room in which he sat was very 
 sacred ground to her ; she seldom intruded on it, and 
 to-night she kept aloof till the bell rung for prayers. 
 Part of the evening church service was the form of 
 worship observed in Mr. Helstone's household : he 
 read it in his usual nasal voice, clear, loud, and 
 monotonous. The rite over, his niece, according to 
 her wont, stepped up to him. 
 
 " Good-night, uncle." 
 
 '^ Hey ! You 've been gadding abroad all day — 
 visiting, dining out, and what not I" 
 
 " Only at the cottage." 
 
 " And have you learnt your lessons?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " And made a shirt ?" 
 
 '• Only part of one." 
 
 '•' Well, that will do : stick to the needle — learn 
 shirt -making and gown -making, and pie -crust- 
 making, and you'll be a clever woman some day. 
 Go to bed now : I 'm busy with a pamphlet here." 
 
 Presently the niece was enclosed in her small bed- 
 room; the door bolted, her white dressini^-gowii
 
 138 SHIRLEY. 
 
 assumed, her long hair loosened and falling thick, 
 soft, and wavy to her waist ; and, as, resting from the 
 task of combing it out, she leaned her cheek on her 
 hand and fixed her eyes on the carpet, before her 
 rose, and close around her drew, the visions we see 
 at eighteen years. 
 
 Her thoughts were speaking with her : speaking 
 pleasantly, as it seemed, for she smiled as she 
 listened. She looked pretty, meditating thus : but a 
 brighter thing than she was in that apartment — the 
 spirit of youthful hope. According to this flattering 
 prophet, she was to know disappointment, to feel 
 chill no more: she had entered on the dawn of a 
 summer day — no false dawn, but the true spring of 
 morning — and her sun would quickly rise. Im- 
 possible for her now to suspect that she was the 
 sport of delusion : her expectations seemed war- 
 ranted, the foundation on which they rested ap- 
 peared sohd. 
 
 " Wlien people love, the next step is they marry," 
 was her argument. " Now, I love Robert, and I 
 feel sure that Robert loves me : I have thought so 
 many a time before; to-day I felt it. When I 
 looked up at him after repeating Chenier's poem, his 
 eyes (what handsome eyes he has !) sent the truth 
 through my heart. Sometimes I am afraid to speak 
 to him, lest I should be too frank, lest I should seem 
 forward: for I have more than once regretted bit- 
 terly, overflowing, superfluous words, and feared I 
 had said more than he expected me to say, and that
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 139 
 
 ne would disapprove what he might deem my indis- 
 cretion ; now, to-night, I could have ventured to 
 express any thought, he was so indulgent. How 
 kind he was, as we walked up the lane ! He does 
 not flatter or say foolish things; his love-making 
 (friendship, I mean : of course I don't yet account 
 him my lover, but I hope he will be so some day) is 
 not like what we read of in books — it is far better — 
 original, quiet, manly, sincere. I do like him : I 
 would be an excellent wife to him if he did marry 
 me : I would teU^ him of his faults (for he has a few 
 faults), but I would study his comfort, and cherish 
 him, and do my best to make him happy. Now, I 
 am sure he will not be cold to-morrow : I feel almost 
 certain that to-morrow evening he will either come 
 here, or ask me to go there." 
 
 She recommenced combing her hair, long as a 
 mermaid's ; turning her head, as she arranged it, she 
 saw her own face and form in the glass. Such 
 reflections are soberizing to plain people ; their own 
 eyes are not enchanted with the image ; they are 
 confident then that the eyes of others can see in it 
 no fascination; but the fair must naturally draw 
 other conclusions : the picture is charming, and must 
 charm. Caroline saw a shape, a head, that, daguerre- 
 otyped in that attitude and with that expression, 
 would have been lovely : she could not choose but 
 derive from the spectacle confirmation to her hopes : 
 it was then in undiminished gladness she sought her 
 couch.
 
 140 SHIKLEY. 
 
 And in undiniinislied gladness she rose the next 
 day : as she entered her uncle's breakfast-room, and 
 with soft cheerfulness wished him good-morning, 
 even that little man of bronze himself thought, for 
 an instant, his niece was growing " a fine girl." 
 Generally she was quiet and timid with him: very 
 docile, but not communicative ; this morning, how- 
 ever, she found many things to say. Slight topics 
 alone might be discussed between them ; for with a 
 woman — a girl — Mr. Helstone would touch on no 
 other. She had taken an early walk in the garden, 
 and she told him what flowers were beginning to 
 spring there ; she inquired when the gardener was to 
 come and trim the borders ; she informed liim that 
 certain starlings were beginning to build their nests 
 in the church-tower (Briarfield church was close to 
 Briarfield rectory) ; she wondered the tolling of the 
 bells in the belfry did not scare them. 
 
 Mr. Helstone opined that " they were like other 
 fools who had just paired ; insensible to inconvenience 
 just for the moment." Caroline, made perhaps a httle 
 too courageous by her temporary good spirits, here 
 hazarded a remark of a kind she had never before 
 ventured to make on observations dropped by her 
 revered relative. 
 
 " Uncle," said she, " whenever you speak of mar- 
 riage, you speak of it scornfully : do you tliink people 
 shouldn't marry ?" 
 
 " It is decidedly the wisest plan to remain single, 
 especially for women."
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 141 
 
 " Are all marriages unhappy ?" 
 
 ^^ Millions of marriages are unhappy : if everybody 
 confessed the truth, perhaps all are more or less so." 
 
 ^^ You are always vexed when you are asked to 
 come and marry a couple — why ?" 
 
 '' Because one does not like to act as accessory to 
 the commission of a piece of pure folly." 
 
 Mr. Helstone spoke so readily, he seemed rather 
 glad of the opportunity to give his niece a piece of 
 his mind on this point. Emboldened by the impunity 
 which had hitherto attended her questions, she went 
 a little further : — 
 
 '^ But why," said she, "should it be pure folly? 
 If two people like each other, why shouldn't they 
 consent to Hve together ? " 
 
 " They tire of each other — they tire of each other 
 in a month. A yokefellow is not a companion ; he 
 or she is a fellow-sufferer." 
 
 It was by no means naive sim^^licity which inspired 
 Caroline's next remark : it was a sense of antipathy 
 to such opinions, and of displeasure at him who held 
 them. 
 
 " One would think you had never been married, 
 uncle : one would think you were an old bachelor." 
 
 " Practically, I am so." 
 
 " But you have been married. Why were you so 
 inconsistent as to marry?" 
 
 *^ Every man is mad once or twice in his Hfe." 
 
 '* So you tired of my aunt, and my aunt of you, 
 and you were miserable together?"
 
 142 SHIRLEY. 
 
 Mr, Helstone pushed out his cynical lip, wrinkled 
 his brown forehead, and gave an inarticulate 
 grunt. 
 
 "Did she not suit you? Was she not good- 
 tempered? Did you not get used to her? Were 
 you not sorry when she died?" 
 
 " Caroline," said IVIr. Helstone, bringing his hand 
 slowly down to within an inch or two of the table, 
 and then smiting it suddenly on the mahogany, 
 " understand this : it is vulgar and puerile to con- 
 found generals with particulars : in every case, there 
 is the rule, and there are the exceptions. Your 
 questions are stupid and babyish. Ring the beU, if 
 you have done breakfast." 
 
 The breakfast was taken away, and that meal over, 
 it was the general custom of uncle and niece to sepa- 
 rate, and not to meet again till dinner; but to-day 
 the niece, instead of quitting the room, went to the 
 window-seat, and sat down there. Mr. Helstone 
 looked round uneasily once or twice, as if he wished 
 her away, but she was gazing from the window, and 
 did not seem to mind him ; so he continued the perusal 
 of his morning paper — a particularly interesting one 
 it chanced to be, as new movements had just taken 
 place in the Peninsula, and certain columns of the 
 journal were rich in long despatches from General 
 Lord Wellington. He little knew, meantime, what 
 thoughts were busy in his niece's mind — thoughts the 
 conversation of the past half-hour had revived, but 
 not generated: tumultuous were they now, as disturbed
 
 THE CUEATES AT TEA. 143 
 
 bees in a hive, but it was years since they had first 
 made their cells in her brain. 
 
 She was reviewing his character, his disposition, 
 repeating his sentiments on marriage. Many a time 
 had she reviewed them before, and sounded the gulf 
 between her own mind and his; and then, on the 
 other side of the wide and deep chasm, she had seen, 
 and she now saw, another figure standing beside her 
 uncle's — a strange shape ; dim, sinister, scarcely 
 earthly : the half-remembered image of her own 
 father, James Helstone, Matthewson Helstone's 
 brother. 
 
 Kumours had reached her ear of what that father's 
 character was ; old servants had dropped hints : she 
 knew, too, that he was not a good man, and that he 
 was never kind to her. She recollected — a dark 
 recollection it was — some weeks that she had spent 
 with him in a great town somewhere, when she had 
 had no maid to dress her or take care of her ; when 
 she had been shut up, day and night, in a high garret- 
 room, without a carpet, with a bare uncurtained bed, 
 and scarcely any other furniture ; when he went out 
 early every morning, and often forgot to return and 
 give her her dinner during the day, and at night, 
 when he came back, was like a madman, furious, 
 terrible ; or — still more painful — like an idiot, imbe- 
 cile, senseless. She knew she had fallen ill in this 
 place, and that one night when she was very sick, 
 he had come raving into the room, and said he would 
 kill her, for she was a burden to him ; her screams
 
 144 SHIRLEY. 
 
 had brought aid, and from the moment she was then 
 rescued from him she had never seen him, except as a 
 dead man in his coffin. 
 
 Tliat was her father : also she had a mother ; though 
 Mr. Helstone never spoke to her of that mother; 
 though she could not remember having seen her : but 
 that she was aHve she knew. This mother was 
 then the drunkard's wife: what had their marriage 
 been? CaroHne, turning from the lattice whence 
 she had been watching the starlings (though with- 
 out seeing them), in a low voice, and with a sad 
 bitter tone, thus broke the silence of the room :— 
 
 " You term marriage, miserable, I suppose, from 
 what you saw of my father's and mother's. If my 
 mother suffered what I suffered when I was with 
 papa, she must have had a dreadful life." 
 
 ]\Ir. Helstone, thus addressed, wheeled about in 
 his chair, and looked over his spectacles at his niece : 
 he was taken aback. 
 
 Her father and mother! AYliat had put it into 
 her head to mention her father and mother, of whom 
 he had never, during the twelve years she had 
 lived with him, spoken to her ? That the thoughts 
 were self-matured; that she had any recollections 
 or speculations about her parents, he could not 
 fancy. 
 
 " Your father and mother ? Who has been talk- 
 ing to you about them?" 
 
 '' Nobody ; but I remember something of what 
 papa was, and I pity mama. Where is she ?"
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 145 
 
 This "Where is she?" had been on Caroline's 
 lips hundreds of times before ; but till now she had 
 never uttered it. 
 
 " I hardly know," returned Mr. Helstone ; "' I 
 was little acquainted with her. I have not heard 
 from her for years : but wherever she is, she thinks 
 nothing of you ; she never inquires about you ; I 
 have reason to believe she does not wish to see you. 
 Come, it is school-time : you go to your cousin at 
 ten, don't you ? The clock has struck." 
 
 Perhaps CaroHne would have said more ; but 
 Fanny coming in, informed her master that the 
 churchwardens wanted to speak to him in the vestry. 
 He hastened to join them, and his niece presently 
 set out for the cottage. 
 
 The road from the Kectory to Hollow's mill in- 
 clined downwards, she ran, therefore, almost all the 
 way. Exercise, the fresh air, the thought of seeing 
 Robert, at least of being on his premises, in liis 
 vicinage, revived her somewhat depressed spirits 
 quickly. Arriving in sight of the white house, and 
 within hearing of the thundering mill and its rush- 
 ing watercourse, the first thing she saw was Moore 
 at his garden-gate. There he stood ; in his belted 
 Holland blouse, a light cap covering liis head, which 
 undress costume suited him: he was looking down 
 the lane, not in the direction of his cousin's ap- 
 proach. She stopped, withdrawing a Httle behind a 
 willow, and studied liis appearance. 
 
 " He has not his peer," she thought ; " he is as 
 
 VOL. I, L
 
 146 SHIRLEY. 
 
 handsome as he is intelligent. ^Yhat a keen eye he 
 . has ! What clearly cut, spirited features — thin and 
 serious, but graceful I I do like his face — I do like 
 his aspect — I do like him so much! Better than 
 any of those shuffling curates, for instance, —better 
 than anybody : bonnie Robert ! " 
 
 She sought "bonnie Robert's" presence speedily. 
 For his part, when she challenged his sight, I be- 
 lieve he would have passed from before her eyes like 
 a phantom, if he could ; but being a tall fact, and no 
 fiction, he was obliged to stand the greeting. He 
 made it brief : it was cousin-like, brother-like, friend- 
 like, anything but lover-like. The nameless charm 
 of last night had left his manner : he was no longer 
 the same man ; or, at any rate, the same heart did 
 not beat in his breast. Rude disappointment ! sharp 
 cross ! At first the eager girl would not believe in 
 the change, thousrh she saw and felt it. It was dif- 
 ficult to withdraw her hand from his, till he had 
 bestowed at least something like a kind pressure ; it 
 was difficult to turn her eyes from his eyes, tiU his 
 looks had expressed something more and fonder than 
 that cool welcome. 
 
 A lover masculine so disappointed can speak and 
 urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothing : 
 if she did the result would be shame and anguish, 
 inward remorse for self-treachery. Nature would 
 brand such demonstration as a rebellion against her 
 instincts, and would vindictively repay it afterwards 
 by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting sud-
 
 THE CUKATES AT TEA. 147 
 
 denly in secret. Take the matter as you find it : 
 ask no questions ; utter no remonstrances: it is your 
 best wisdom. You expected bread, and you have 
 got a stone ; break your teeth on it, and don't 
 shi'iek because the nerves are martyrized: do not 
 doubt that your mental stomach — if you have such 
 a thing — is strong as an ostrich's — the stone will 
 digest. You held out your hand for an egg, and 
 fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation : 
 close yoiu: fingers firmly upon the gift ; let it sting 
 through your palm. Xever mind: in time, after 
 your hand and ann have swelled and quivered long 
 with torture, the squeezed scorpion will die, and 
 you will have learned the great lesson how to endure 
 without a sob. For the whole remnant of your 
 life, if you survive the test — some, it is said, die 
 under it — you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive. 
 This you are not aware of, perhaps, at the time, 
 and so cannot borrow courage of that hope. Nature, 
 however, as has been intimated, is an excellent friend 
 in such cases ; sealing the lips, interdicting utterance, 
 commanding a placid dissimulation: a dissimulation 
 often wearing an easy and gay mien at first, settling 
 down to sorrow and paleness in time, then passing 
 away and leaving a convenient stoicism, not the less 
 fortifying because it is half-bitter. 
 
 Half-bitter! Is that wrong? Xo — it should be 
 bitter : bitterness is strength — it is a tonic. Sweet 
 mild force following acute suffering, you find no- 
 where: to talk of it is delusion. There may be 
 
 L 2
 
 148 SHIRLEY. 
 
 apathetic exhaustion after the rack; if energy re- 
 mains, it will be rather a dangerous energy — deadly 
 when confronted with injustice. 
 
 Wlio has read the ballad of " Puir Mary Lee?" 
 — that old Scotch ballad, written I know not in what 
 generation nor by what hand. Mary had been ill- 
 used — probably in being made to believe that truth 
 which was falsehood : she is not complaining, but she 
 is sitting alone in the snow-storm, and you hear her 
 thoughts. They are not the thoughts of a model- 
 heroine under her circumstances, but they are those 
 of a deeply-feeling, strongly-resentful peasant-girl. 
 Anguish has di'iven her from the ingle-nook of home, 
 to the white-shrouded and icy hills : crouched under 
 the " cauld drift," she recalls every image of horror, 
 — " the yellow-wymed ask," " the hairy adder," 
 " the auld moon-bowing tyke," " the ghaist at e'en," 
 *' the sour bullister," " the milk on the taed's 
 back : '* she hates these, but " waur she hates 
 Robin-a-Ree I " 
 
 ** Oh ! ance I lived happily by yon bonny burn — 
 The warld was in love wi' me ; 
 But now I maun sit 'neath the cauld drift and mourn, 
 And curse black Robin-a-Ree ! 
 
 " Then whudder awa' thou bitter biting blast," 
 
 (Reader, do you hear the wild sound of this line, 
 sweeping over the waste, piercing the winter- 
 tempest ?) 
 
 * ' And sough through the scrunty tree, 
 And smoor me up in the snaw fu' fast, 
 And neer let the sun me see !
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 149 
 
 " Oh, never melt awa, thou wreath o' snaw. 
 That's sae kind in graving me j 
 But hide me frae the scorn and guffaw 
 O' villains like Robin-a-Ree ! " 
 
 But wliat has been said in the last page or two is 
 not germane to Caroline Helstone's feelings, or to 
 the state of things between her and E-obert Moore. 
 Robert had done her no wronsj : he had told her no 
 lie ; it was she that was to blame, if any one was : 
 what bitterness her mind distilled should and would 
 be poured on her own head. She had loved without 
 being asked to love, — a natural, sometimes an in- 
 evitable chance, but big with misery. 
 
 Eobert, indeed, had sometimes seemed to be fond 
 of her — but why ? Because she had made herself so 
 pleasing to liim, he could not, in spite of all his 
 efforts, help testifying a state of feeling his judg- 
 ment did not approve, nor his will sanction. He 
 was about to withdraw decidedly from intimate com- 
 munication with her, because he did not choose to 
 have liis affections inextricably entangled, nor to be 
 drawn, despite his reason, into a marriage he be- 
 lieved imprudent. Now, what was she to do ? — 
 to give way to her feelings, or to vanquish them? 
 To pursue him, or to turn upon herself? If she is 
 weak, she will try the last expedient, — will lose his 
 esteem and win his aversion; if she has sense, she 
 will be her own governor, and resolve to subdue and 
 bring under guidance the disturbed reahn of her 
 emotions. She will determine to look on life
 
 150 SHIRLEY. 
 
 steadily, as it is ; to begin to leam its severe truths 
 seriously, and to study its knotty problems closely, 
 conscientiously. 
 
 It appeared she had a little sense, for she quitted 
 Robert quietly, without comjDlaint or question — 
 without the alteration of a muscle or the sheddinjc 
 of a tear, — betook herself to her studies under Hor- 
 tense as usual, and at dinner-time went home with- 
 out linoferlno;. 
 
 When she had dined, and found herself in the 
 Eectory drawing-room alone, having left her uncle 
 over his temperate glass of port wine, the difficulty 
 that occurred to, and embarrassed her, was — " How 
 am I to get through this day ? " 
 
 Last night she had hoped it would be spent as 
 yesterday was, — that the evening would be again 
 passed with Happiness and Eobert : she had learned 
 her mistake this morning, and yet she could not 
 settle down, convinced that no chance would occur 
 to recall her to Hollow's cottage, or to bring IMoore 
 again into her society. 
 
 He had walked up after tea, more than once, to 
 pass an hour with her uncle : the door-bell had rung, 
 his voice had been heard in the passage just at 
 twilight, when she little expected such a pleasure ; 
 and this had happened twice after he had treated her 
 with peculiar reserve ; and, though he rarely talked 
 to her in her uncle's presence, he had looked at licr 
 relentingly, as he sat opposite her work-table during 
 his stay : the few words he had spoken to her were
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. lol 
 
 comforting; Ms manner on bidding her good-night 
 was genial. Now, he might come this evening, said 
 False Hope : she almost knew it was False Hope 
 which breathed the whisper, and yet she listened. 
 
 She tried to read — her thoughts wandered; she 
 tried to sew — every stitch she put in was an ennui, 
 the occupation was insufferably tedious ; she opened 
 her desk, and • attempted to write a French composi- 
 tion — she wrote nothing but mistakes. 
 
 Suddenly the door-bell sharply rang — her heart 
 leaped — she sprang to the drawing-room door, 
 opened it softly, peeped through the aperture : 
 Fanny was admitting a visitor — a gentleman — a 
 tall man — just the height of Robert. For one second 
 she thought it was Robert — for one second she 
 exulted ; but the voice asking for Mr. Helstone 
 undeceived her : that voice was an Irish voice, con- 
 sequently not Moore's but the curate's — Malone's. 
 He was ushered into the dining-room, where, doubt- 
 less, he speedily helped his Rector to empty the 
 decanters. 
 
 It was a fact to be noted, that at whatever house 
 in Briarfield, ^Yhinbury, or Xunnely, one curate 
 dropped in to a meal — dinner or tea, as the case 
 might be — another presently followed; often two 
 more. Not that they gave each other the rendezvous, 
 but they were usually all on the run at the same 
 time ; and when Donne, for instance, sought Malone 
 at his lodgings and found him not, he inquired 
 whither he had posted, and having learned of the
 
 1 52 SHIRLEY. 
 
 landlady his destination, hastened with aU speed after 
 him : the same causes operated in the same way with 
 Sweeting. Thus it chanced on that afternoon that 
 Caroline's ears were three times tortured with the 
 rinorino; of the bell, and the advent of undesired jmests: 
 for Donne followed Malone, and Sweeting followed 
 Donne; and more wine was ordered up from the 
 cellar into the dining-room (for though old Helstone 
 chid the inferior priesthood when he found them 
 " carousing," as he called it, in their own tents, yet 
 at his hierarchical table he ever hked to treat them 
 to a glass of liis best), and through the closed doors 
 CaroKne heard their boyish laughter, and the vacant 
 cackle of their voices. Her fear was lest they should 
 stay to tea ; for she had no pleasure in making tea for 
 that particular trio. "VYhat distinctions people draw I 
 These three were men — young men — educated men 
 like Moore : yet, for her, how great the difference ! 
 Their society was a bore — his a delight. 
 
 Not only was she destined to be favoured with 
 their clerical company, but Fortune was at this 
 moment bringing her four other guests — lady-guests, 
 all packed in a pony-pha^ton now rolling somewhat 
 heavily along the road from Whinbury: an elderly 
 ladv, and three of her buxom dauohters, were com- 
 ing to see her " in a friendly way," as the custom of 
 that neighbourhood was. Yes, a fourth time the 
 bell clanged : Fanny brought the present announce- 
 ment to the drawinoj-room — 
 
 " ISIrs. Sykes and the three Misses Sykes."
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 153 
 
 When CaroKne was going to receive company, her 
 habit was to wring her hands very nervously, to 
 flush a httle, and come forward hurriedly yet hesi- 
 tatingly, wishing herself meantime at Jericho. She 
 was, at such crises, sadly deficient in finished man- 
 ner, though she had once been at school a year. 
 Accordingly, on tliis occasion, her small white hands 
 sadly maltreated each other, while she stood up, 
 waiting the entrance of Mrs, Sykes. 
 
 In stalked that lady, a tall bilious gentlewoman, 
 who made an ample and not altogether insincere pro- 
 fession of piety, and was greatly given to hospitality 
 towards the clergy ; in sailed her three daughters, 
 a showy trio, being all three well grown, and more or 
 less handsome. 
 
 In English country ladies there is this point to be 
 remarked. Whether young or old, pretty or plain, 
 dull or sprightly, they all (or almost aU) have a cer- 
 tain expression stamped on their features, which 
 seems to say, " I know — I do not boast of it — but I 
 hnow that I am the standard of what is proper ; let 
 every one therefore whom I approach, or who 
 approaches me, keep a sharp look-out, for wherein 
 they differ from me — be the same in dress, manner, 
 opinion, principle, or practice — therein they are 
 wrong." 
 
 Mrs. and Misses Sykes, far from being exceptions 
 to this observation, were pointed illustrations of its 
 truth. Miss Mary — a Avell-looked, well-meant, and 
 on the whole, well-dispositioned girl — wore her com-
 
 154 SHIRLEY. 
 
 placency with some state, though without harshness ; 
 Miss Harriet — a beauty — carried it more overbear- 
 ingly : she looked high and cold ; iSIiss Hannah, 
 who was conceited, dashing, pushing, flourished hers 
 consciously and openly ; the mother e\'inced it with 
 the gravity proper to her age and religious fame. 
 
 The reception was got through somehow. Caro- 
 line "was glad to see them" (an unmitigated fib), 
 hoped they were well, hoped Mrs. Sykes's cough was 
 better (Mrs. Sykes had had a cough for the last 
 twenty years), hoped the JVlisses Sykes had left 
 their sisters at home well; to which inquiry, the 
 IMisses Sykes, sitting on three chairs opposite the 
 music-stool, whereon Caroline had undesignedly 
 come to anchor, after wavering for some seconds 
 between it and a large arm-chair, into which she 
 at length recollected she ought to induct Mrs. 
 Sykes: and indeed that lady saved her the trouble 
 by depositing herself therein ; the IMisses Sykes 
 replied to Caroline by one simultaneous bow, very 
 majestic and mighty awful. A pause followed : this 
 bow was of a character to ensure silence for the 
 next five minutes, and it did. jNIrs. Sykes then 
 inquired after Mr. Helstone, and whether he had 
 had any return of rheumatism, and whether preach- 
 ing twice on a Sunday fatigued him, and if he was 
 capable of taking a full service now ; and on being 
 assured he was, she and all her daughters, com- 
 bining in chorus, expressed theii' opinion that he 
 was " a wonderful man of liis years."
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 155 
 
 Pause second. 
 
 Miss Maiy, getting up the steam in her turn, 
 asked whether Caroline had attended the Bible 
 Society Meeting which had been held at Nunnely 
 last Thursday night : the negative answer which 
 truth compelled Caroline to utter — for last Thursday 
 evening she had been sitting at home, reading a 
 novel which Eobert had lent her — elicited a simid- 
 taneous expression of surprise from the lips of the 
 four ladies. 
 
 " We were all there," said Miss Mary ; " mama 
 and all of us ; we even persuaded papa to go : 
 Hannah would insist upon it; but he fell asleep 
 while IMr. Langweilig, the German Moravian 
 minister, was speaking : I felt quite ashamed, he 
 nodded so." 
 
 " And there was Dr. Broadbent," cried Hannah, 
 " such a beautiful speaker ! You coiddn't expect 
 it of him, for he is almost a vulo;ar lookino; man." 
 
 " But such a dear man," interrupted Mary. 
 
 " And such a good man, such a useful man," added 
 her mother. 
 
 " Only like a butcher in appearance," interposed 
 the fair, proud Harriet. "I couldn't bear to look 
 at him ; I listened with my eyes shut." 
 
 Miss Helstone felt her iojnorance and incom- 
 petency ; not ha\dng seen Dr. Broadbent, she could 
 not give her opinion. Pause third came on. During 
 its continuance, Carohne was feehng at her heart's 
 core what a dreaming fool she was; what an un-
 
 156 SHIRLEY. 
 
 practical life she led; how little fitness there was 
 in her for ordinary intercourse with the ordinary- 
 world. She was feeling how exclusively she had 
 attached herself to the white cottage in the Hollow ; 
 how in the existence of one inmate of that cottage « 
 she had pent aU her universe : she was sensible that 
 this would not do, and that some day she would be 
 forced to make an alteration: it could not be said 
 that she exactly wished to resemble the ladies before 
 her, but she wished to become superior to her pre- 
 sent self, so as to feel less scared by their dignity. 
 
 The sole means she found of reviving the flagging 
 discourse, was by asking them if they would all stay 
 to tea; and a cmel struggle it cost her to perform 
 this piece of civility. Mrs. Sykes had begun — " We 
 
 are much obliged to you, but " when in came 
 
 Fanny once more. 
 
 " The gentlemen will stay the evening, ma'am," 
 was the message she brought from Mr. Helstone. 
 
 "^Yhat gentlemen have you?" now inquired 
 Mrs. Sykes. Their names were specified ; she and 
 her dauo-hters interchano^ed o:lances : the curates 
 were not to them what they were to Caroline. Mr. 
 Sweeting was quite a favourite Avith them ; even 
 Mr. Malone rather so, because he was a clergyman. 
 '^ Really, since you have company already, I think 
 we will stay," remarked Mrs. Sykes. " We shall be 
 quite a pleasant little party : I always like to meet 
 the clergy." 
 
 And now Caroline had to usher them up-stairs.
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 157 
 
 to help them to unshawl, smooth their hair and make 
 themselves smart ; to reconduct them to the drawing- 
 room, to distribute amongst them books of engrav- 
 ings, or odd things purchased from the Jew-basket : 
 she was obliged to be a purchaser, though she was but 
 a slack contributor, and if she had possessed plenty of 
 money, she would rather, when it was brought to 
 the Kectory — an awful iQCubus! — have purchased 
 the whole stock, than contributed a single pin- 
 cushion. 
 
 It ought perhaps to be explained in passing, for 
 the benefit of those who are not " au fait " to the 
 mysteries of the " Jew-basket " and " ISIissionary- 
 basket," that these " meubles " are willow-repositories, 
 of the capacity of a good-sized family clothes-basket, 
 dedicated to the purpose of conveying from house to 
 house a monster collection of pincushions, needle- 
 books, card-racks, work-bags, articles of infant-wear, 
 &c. &c. &c., made by the willing or reluctant hands 
 of the Clu-istian ladies of a parish, and sold -per force 
 to the heathenish gentlemen thereof, at prices un- 
 blushingly exorbitant. The proceeds of such com- 
 pulsory sale are apphed to the conversion of the 
 Jews, the seeking up of the ten missing tribes, or 
 to the regeneration of the interesting coloured popu- 
 lation of the globe. Each lady-contributor takes it 
 in her turn to keep the basket a month, to sew for 
 it, and to foist off its contents on a shrinking male 
 public. An exciting time it is when that tui*n comes 
 round : some active - minded women, with a good
 
 158 SHIRLEY. 
 
 trading spirit, like it, and enjoy exceedingly the fun 
 of making hard-handed worsted-spinners cash up, to 
 the tune of four or five hundred per cent, above cost 
 price, for articles quite useless to them ; other — 
 feebler souls object to it, and would rather see the 
 prince of darkness himself at their door any morn- 
 ing, than that phantom-basket, brought with " Mrs. 
 Rouse's compliments, and please ma'am she says it 's 
 your turn now." 
 
 INIiss Helstone's duties of hostess performed, more 
 anxiously than cheerily, she betook herself to the 
 kitchen, to hold a brief privy council with Fanny 
 and Eliza about the tea. 
 
 '' What a lot on 'em !" cried EUza, who was cook. 
 " And I put off the baking to-day because I thought 
 there would be bread plenty to fit while morning : 
 we shall never have enow." 
 
 " Are there any tea-cakes ?" asked the young 
 mistress. 
 
 " Only three and a loaf. I wish these fine folk 
 would stay at home till they 're asked : and I want 
 to finish trimming my hat " (bonnet she meant). 
 
 " Then, " suggested Caroline, to whom the im- 
 portance of the emergency gave a certain energy, 
 " Fanny must run down to Briarfield and buy some 
 muffins and crumpets, and some biscuits : and don't 
 be cross, Eliza, we can't help it now." 
 
 " And which tea-things arc we to have ?" 
 
 " Oh, the best, I suppose : I '11 get out the silver 
 service," and she ran up-stairs to the plate-closet.
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 159 
 
 and presently brought down tea-pot, cream-ewer, 
 and suorar-basin. 
 
 " And mun we have th' urn ? " 
 
 ^''Yes; and now get it ready as quickly as you 
 can, for the sooner we have tea over, the sooner 
 they will go — at least, I hope so. Heigho I I wish 
 they were gone," she sighed as she returned to the 
 drawing-room. " Still," she thought, as she paused 
 at the door ere opening it, " if Robert would but 
 come even now how bright all would be I How 
 comparatively easy the task of amusing these people, 
 if he were present ! There would be an interest in 
 hearing him talk (though he never says much in 
 company) and in talking in his presence : there can 
 be no interest in hearing any of them, or in speaking 
 to them. How they will gabble when the curates 
 come in, and how weary I shall grow with listening 
 to them ! But I suppose I am a selfish fool : these 
 are very respectable gentlefolks ; I ought no doubt 
 to be proud of their countenance : I don't say they 
 are not as good as I am — far from it — but they 
 are different from me." 
 
 She went in. 
 
 Yorkshire people, in those days, took their tea 
 round the table ; sitting well into it, with their knees 
 duly introduced under the mahogany. It was 
 essential to have a multitude of plates of bread and 
 butter, varied in sorts and plentifid in quantity : it 
 was thought proper, too, that on the centre-plate 
 should stand a glass dish of marmalade ; among the
 
 160 SHIELEY. 
 
 viands* were expected to be found a small assortment 
 of cheesecakes and tarts ; if there was also a plate of 
 thin slices of pink ham garnished with green parsley, 
 so much the better. 
 
 Eliza, the Rector's cook, fortunately knew her 
 business as provider : she had been put out of 
 humour a little at first, when the invaders came so 
 unexpectedly in such strength ; but it appeared that 
 she regained her cheerfulness with action, for in 
 due time the tea was spread forth in handsome 
 style ; and neither ham, tarts, nor marmalade were 
 wanting among its accompaniments. 
 
 The curates, summoned to this bounteous repast, 
 entered joyous ; but at once, on seeing the ladies, of 
 whose presence they had not been forewarned, they 
 came to a stand in the door-way. Malone headed 
 the party ; he stopped short and fell back, almost 
 capsizing Donne, who was behind him. Donne, 
 staggering three paces in retreat, sent little Sweet- 
 ing into the arms of old Helstone, who brought up 
 the rear. There was some expostulation, some 
 tittering : Malone was desired to mind what he was 
 about, and urged to push forward; which at last he 
 did, though colouring to the top of liis peaked fore- 
 head a bluish purple. Helstone, advancing, set the 
 shy curates aside, welcomed all his fair guests, shook 
 hands and passed a jest with each, and seated him- 
 self snugly between the lovely Harriet and the 
 dasliing Hannah ; Miss Mary he requested to move 
 to the seat opposite to him, that he might see her
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 161 
 
 if he couldn't be near her. Perfectly easy and gal- 
 lant, in his ^'ay, were his manners always to young 
 ladies ; and most popular was he amongst them : yet, 
 at heart, he neither respected nor liked the sex, and 
 such of them as circumstances had brought into inti- 
 mate relation with him had ever feared rather than 
 loved liim. 
 
 The cui'ates were left to shift for themselves. 
 Sweeting, who was the least embarrassed of the 
 three, took refuge beside ]Mrs. Sykes ; who, he knew, 
 was almost as fond of him as if he had been her son. 
 Donne, after making his general bow with a grace 
 all his own, and saying in a high pragmatical voice, 
 " How d' ye do. Miss Helstone ? " dropped into a 
 seat at Caroline's elbow : to her unmitigated annoy- 
 ance, for she had a peculiar antipathy to Donne, on 
 account of his stultified and unmoveable self-conceit, 
 and his incurable narrowness of mind. IMalone, 
 grinnino' most unmeanin!2;lv, inducted himself into 
 the corresponding seat on the other side : she was 
 thus blessed in a pair of supporters ; neither of whom, 
 she knew, would be of any mortal use, whether for 
 keeping up the conversation, handing cups, circu- 
 lating the muffins, or even lifting the plate from the 
 slop-basin. Little Sweeting, small and boyish as he 
 was, would have been worth twenty of them. 
 
 Malone, though a ceaseless talker vrhen there 
 were only men present, was usually tongue-tied in 
 the presence of ladies: three plu'ases, however, he 
 
 VOL. I. :^i
 
 162 SHIKLET. 
 
 had ready cut and di'ied, whicli he never failed to 
 produce : — 
 
 Istly. — " Have you had a wallv to-day^ Miss 
 Hektone?" 
 
 2ndly. — "Have you seen your cousin, Moore, 
 lately?'" 
 
 3rdly. — "Does your class at the Sunday-school 
 keep up its number?" 
 
 These three questions being put and responded to, 
 between Caroline and Malone reigned silence. 
 
 With Donne it was otherwise: he was trouble- 
 some, exasperating. He had a stock of small-talk 
 on hand, at once the most trite and perverse that 
 can well be imagined : abuse of the people of Briar- 
 field ; of the natives of Yorkshire generally ; com- 
 plaints of the want of high society ; of the backward 
 state of civilization in these districts ; murmurings 
 against the disrespectful conduct of the lower orders 
 in the north toward their betters; silly ridicule of 
 the manner of living in these parts, — the want of 
 style, the absence of elegance, — as if he, Donne, had 
 been accustomed to very great doings indeed: an 
 insinuation which liis somewhat underbred manner 
 and aspect failed to bear out. These strictures he 
 seemed to think must raise him in the estimation of 
 Miss Helstone, or of any other lady who heard him ; 
 whereas with her, at least, they brought him to a 
 level below contempt: though sometimes, indeed, 
 they incensed her ; for, a Yorkshire girl herself, she
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 163 
 
 hated to hear Yorkshire abused by such a pitiful 
 prater ; and when wrought up to a certain pitch, she 
 would turn and say something of which neither the 
 matter nor the manner recommended her to Mr. 
 Donne's good-will. She would tell him it was no 
 proof of refinement to be ever scolding others for 
 vulgarity ; and no sign of a good pastor to be eter- 
 nally censuring his flock. She would ask him what 
 he had entered the church for, since he complained 
 there were only cottages to visit, and poor people to 
 preach to? — whether he had been ordained to the 
 ministry merely to wear soft clothing, and sit in 
 king's houses ? These questions were considered by 
 aU the curates as, to the last degree, audacious and 
 impious. 
 
 Tea was a long time in progress : all the guests 
 gabbled as their hostess had expected they would. 
 jMr. Helstone, 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 taciturnity, 
 — kept up a brilliant flow of easy prattle with his 
 right-hand and left-hand neighbours, and even with 
 his vis-a-vis, IVliss Mary : though as jMary was the 
 most sensible, the least coquettish of the three, to 
 her the elderly widower was the least attentive. At 
 heart, he could not abide sense in women : he liked 
 to see them as siUy, 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 
 
 31 2
 
 164 SHIRLEY. 
 
 be, — inferior : toys to play with, to amuse a vacant 
 hour and to be thrown away. 
 
 Kannah was his favourite. Harriet, though beau- 
 tiful, egotistical, and self-satisfied, was not Cjuite 
 weak enough for liim : she had some genuine self- 
 respect amidst much false pride, and if she did not 
 talk like an oracle, neither would she babble like one 
 crazy : she would not pennit 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. vSo very credulous and frivolous was she ; so 
 very silly did she become when besieged with atten- 
 tion, flattered and admired to the proper degree, that 
 there were moments when Helstone actually felt 
 tempted to commit matrimony a second time, and to 
 try the experiment of taking her for his second help- 
 meet: 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 insuflferable evils of conjugal exis- 
 tence, operated as a check to his tenderness, sup- 
 pressed the sigh heaving his old iron lungs, and 
 restrained him from whispering to Hannah proposals 
 it w^ould have been high fun and great satisfaction to 
 her to hear. 
 
 It is probable she would liave married him if he
 
 THE CURATES AT TEA. 165 
 
 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 5,000/. 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 hesi- 
 tated about making a grand sacrifice to attain it), — her 
 parents, I say, would have delivered Hannah over to 
 his lovingkindness and liis tender mercies without one 
 scruple ; and the second Mrs. Helstone, inversing the 
 natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered 
 tlu-ough the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, 
 and crawled the rest of her days a sordid, trampled 
 worm. 
 
 Little Mr. Sweeting, seated between jMrs. Sykes 
 and Miss 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 
 Misses Sykes ; they were all fond of him : he thought 
 them magnificent girls, quite proper to mate with one 
 of his inches. If he had a cause of regret at this 
 bHssful moment, it Avas that Miss Dora happened to 
 be absent; Dora being the one whom he secretly 
 hoped one day to call Mrs. David Sweeting, with
 
 166 SHIRLEY. 
 
 whom he dreamt of taking stately walks, leading her 
 like an empress through the village of Nunnely : and 
 an empress she would have been, if size could make 
 an empress. She was vast, ponderous: seen from 
 beliind, she had the air of a very stout lady of forty ; 
 but withal 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. Donne 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 viands as he felt com- 
 petent to swallow — long, indeed, after signs of impa- 
 tience had been manifested all round the board : till 
 chairs were pushed back ; till the talk flagged ; till 
 silence fell. Vainly did Caroline inquii'e repeatedly 
 if he would have another cup ; if he woidd take a 
 little hot tea, as that must be cold, &c. : 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 hnger, that the very urn 
 died : it ceased to liiss. At length, however, the old 
 Kector himself, who had hitherto been too pleasantly 
 engaged with Hannah to care for the delay, got im- 
 patient. 
 
 " For whom are we waiting ? " he asked. 
 
 " For me, I believe," returned Donne, complacently ; 
 appcarmg to think it much to his credit that a
 
 THE CUE AXES AT TEA. 167 
 
 party should thus be kept dependent on Ms move- 
 ments. 
 
 "Tut!" cried Helstone; then standing up, "Let 
 us retiu'n thanks/' said he ; which he did forthwith, 
 and all quitted the table. Donne, nothing abashed, 
 still sat ten minutes quite alone, whereupon j\Ir. 
 Helstone rang the bell for the things to be removed ; 
 the curate at length saw himself forced to empty his 
 cu]3, and to rehnquish the role which, he thought, had 
 given him such a felicitous distinction, drawn upon 
 him such flattering general notice. 
 
 And now, in the natural course of events (Caroline, 
 knowing how it woidd 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, there- 
 fore, the arduous task of persuading the young ladies 
 to favour the company with an air — a song. Con 
 amore, he went through the whole business of begging, 
 praying, resisting excuses, explaining away difficulties, 
 and at last succeeded in persuading jMiss Harriet to 
 allow herself to be led to the instrument. Then out 
 came the pieces of liis flute (he always carried them 
 in his pocket, as unfailingly as he carried his hand- 
 kerchief). They were screwed and arranged ; Malone 
 and Donne meantime herdino; toj^ether, and sneerino: 
 
 CD O ■^ O 
 
 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 accom- 
 
 %
 
 168 SHIRLEY. 
 
 pany the ladies as he could ; he was about to enjoy a 
 triumph over them. 
 
 The triumph began. IMalone, much chagrined at 
 hearing liim pipe up in most superior style, deter- 
 mined to earn distinction, too, if possible, and all at 
 once assuming the character of a swain (wliich cha- 
 racter he had endeavoured to enact once or twice 
 before, but in Avhich he had not hitherto met with 
 the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved), 
 approached a sofa on wliich ]Miss Helstone was 
 seated, and depositing his great Irish frame near her, 
 tried his hand (or rather tongue) at a fine speech 
 or two, accompanied by grins the most extraordinary 
 and incomprehensible. In the course of his efforts 
 to render himself agreeable, he contrived to possess 
 himself of the two long sofa cushions and a square 
 one ; with which, after roUing them about for some 
 time with strange gestures, he managed to erect a 
 sort of barrier between himself and the object of his 
 attentions. Caroline, 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 orna- 
 mental knitting, a favour readily granted, and thus 
 Peter Augustus was thrown out. 
 
 Very suUenly did his countenance lower when he 
 saw himself abandoned : left entirely to his own re- 
 sources, on a large sofa, with the charge of three small 
 cushions on his hands. The fact was, he felt dis-
 
 THE CUEATES AT TEA. 169 
 
 posed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss 
 Helstone; because he thought, in common with 
 others, that her uncle possessed money, and con- 
 cluded, that since he had no children, he would 
 probably leave it to liis niece. Gerard Moore was 
 better instructed on this point : he had seen the neat 
 church that owed its ori<xin to the Rector's zeal and 
 cash, and more than once, in liis inmost soul, had 
 cursed an expensive caprice which crossed his wishes. 
 
 The evening seemed long to one person in that 
 room. Caroline 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 
 round 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 inter- 
 minable 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 and 
 their contents; the late meeting at Xunnely, and 
 one which was expected to come off next week at 
 Whinbury. 
 
 Tired at length to exhaustion, she embraced the 
 opportunity of jNIr. Sweeting coming up to speak 
 to jMrs. Sykes, to slip quietly out of the apartment,
 
 170 SHIRLEY. 
 
 and seek a moment's respite in solitude. She re- 
 paired to tlie dining-room, where the clear but now 
 low remnant of a fire still burnt 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. Caroline sank into 
 her uncle's large easy chair, half shut her eyes, and 
 rested herself — rested at least her limbs, her senses, 
 her hearing, her vision — weary with listening to 
 nothing, and gazing on vacancy. As to her mind, 
 that flew directly to the HoUow : it stood on the 
 threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the 
 counting-house, and wondered wliich spot was 
 blessed by the presence of Robert. It so happened 
 that neither locality had that honour ; for Robert was 
 half a mile away from both, and much nearer to 
 Caroline than her deadened spiiit suspected : he w^as 
 at this moment crossing the churchyard, approach- 
 ing the rectory garden-gate : not, however, coming to 
 see liis cousin, but intent solely on coimnunicating 
 a brief piece of intelligence to the rector. 
 
 Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell 
 vibrate : it rincrs a2:ain for the fifth time this after- 
 noon : you start, and you are certain now that tliis 
 must be him of whom you dream. Why you are so 
 certain you cannot explain to yourself, but you 
 know it. You lean forward, listening eagerly as 
 Faimy 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 LIr.
 
 THE CUEATES AT TEA. 171 
 
 Helstone is with company, and then he will go 
 away." Oh ! she cannot let him go : in spite of her- 
 self — 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." 
 
 Xow, having caught these words, and hearing him 
 advance, Carohne, if there was a door within the 
 dining-room, would glide through it and disappear. 
 She feels caught, hemmed in ; she dreads her un- 
 expected presence may annoy him. A second since, 
 she would have flown to him ; that second passed, 
 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 cousiiu 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. ^Ir. ]Moore, 
 probably, remembered how she had formerly been 
 accustomed to meet him vrith gentle ardour and 
 hopeful confidence ; he must have seen how the
 
 1 72 SHIRLEY. 
 
 clieck of tliis morning had operated: here was an 
 opportunity for carrying out liis new system with 
 eiFect, if he chose to improve it/ Perhaps he found 
 it easier to practise that system in broad daylight, in 
 his mill-yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a 
 quiet parlour, 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 : Carohne 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 woidd not let her go. 
 
 " Shall I tell my uncle you are here ? " asked she, 
 still in the same subdued voice. 
 
 " Xo ; I can say to you all I had to say to him. 
 You will be my messenger ?" 
 
 " Yes, Kobert." 
 
 " 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 liim in custody to-morrow. 
 You can remember that ?" 
 
 '' Oh ! yes." These two monosyllables were ut- 
 tered in a sadder tone than ever ; and, as she said 
 them, she shook her head slightly, and sighed. 
 " Will you prosecute hun ?" 
 
 " Doubtless." 
 
 " Xo, Robert."
 
 THE CUHATES AT TEA. 173 
 
 " And why no, Caroline ?" 
 
 " Because it will set all the neio^hbourhood 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 perpe- 
 trating 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.' " 
 
 Moore laughed. 
 
 " A most pithy vaunt," said he ; '' one that re- 
 dounds vastly to the credit of your dear Yorkshire 
 friends. But don't fear for me, Lina : I am on my 
 guard against these lamb-like compatriots of yours : 
 don't make yourself uneasy about me/' 
 
 " Hovy- can I help it ? You are my cousin. If 
 anything happened — " she stopped. 
 
 " Xothing will happen, Lina. To speak in your 
 own lan2:uaQ:e, there is a Providence above all — is 
 there not ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear Kobert. I^Iay He guard you ! " 
 
 ** And if prayers have efficacy, yours will benefit 
 me : you pray for me sometimes ?" 
 
 " Xot sometimes, Eobert : you, and Louis, and 
 Hortense are always remembered." 
 
 " So I have often imaojined : it has occurred to
 
 174 SHIRLEY. 
 
 me, when, weary and vexed, I have myself gone to 
 bed like a heathen, that another had asked forgive- 
 ness 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." 
 
 " Anniliilate 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 harbour him, as if he had any claim 
 to that sort of nest. If I could guide that benignant 
 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 scutcheon the foul 
 stain of bankruptcy." 
 
 The hint, though conveyed thus tenderly and 
 modestly (as Caroline thouglit), was felt keenly and 
 comprehended clearly. 
 
 " 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
 
 THE CUE ATE S AT TEA. 175 
 
 duty to try to get on, and that it won't do for you 
 to be romantic; but in future you must not mis- 
 understand me, if I seem friendly. You misunder- 
 stood 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." 
 
 '^ Yet 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 ]\Ir. Moore." 
 
 " ^fiTot a bit of ]Mr. Moore. Caroline — " 
 
 Here the company was heard rising in the other 
 room ; the door was opened ; the pony-carriage was 
 ordered ; shawls and bonnets were demanded ; j\Ir. 
 Helstone 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. Carohne, 
 good-night ! "
 
 176 SHIRLEY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 KOAH AND MOSES. 
 
 The next day, Moore had risen before the sun, and 
 had taken a ride to Wliinbury and back ere his sister 
 had made the cafe au lait, or cut the tartines for his 
 breakfast. ^^Tiat business he transacted there, he 
 kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions : it 
 was not her wont to comment on his movements, nor 
 Ills 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 sepulchre, save 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 liis mercantile blood. 
 
 Breakfast over, he went to liis 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 tlie documents, and glanced them 
 over. They were all short, but not — it seemed —
 
 KOAH AND MOSES. 177 
 
 sweet ; probably ratiier sour on the contrary, for as 
 ]\Ioore laid down the last, bis nostrils emitted a 
 derisive and defiant snuff; and, tbougb he burst into 
 no soliloquy, there was a glance in liis eye which 
 seemed to invoke the devil, and lay charges on him 
 to sweep the whole concern to Gehenna. However, 
 having chosen a pen and stripped 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 
 newspaj)er. 
 
 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 
 bus head towards the window ; he looked at intervals 
 at his watch : in short, his mind appeared pre- 
 occupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty 
 of the weather — for it was a fine and mild morning 
 for the season — and wishino; 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 sulphur-puff from the 
 soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable from the 
 gaunt mill-chunney. 
 
 A dark blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh 
 
 from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open 
 VOL. I. K
 
 178 SHIRLEY. 
 
 door^ uttered the words " He 's corned, sir," and 
 vanished. 
 
 Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. 
 A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, 
 clad in fustian 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 (a very bad one), stowed it away 
 under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a 
 spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat- 
 crown — that it was " Raio:ht dahn warm for Febe- 
 werry." Mr. Moore assented: at least he uttered 
 some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might 
 pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully 
 deposited in the corner beside liim an official-looking 
 staff which he bore in his hand ; this done, he 
 whistled, probably by way of appearing at his 
 ease. 
 
 " You have what is necessary, I suppose," said 
 Mr. INIoore. 
 
 « Ay ! ay ! all 's raight." 
 
 He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading : 
 the paper apparently had become more interesting. 
 Presently, however, he turned to his cupboard, which 
 "was within rea.ch of his long ann, opened it without 
 rising, took out a black bottle — the same he had 
 produced for ^Malone's benefit — a tumbler, and a jug, 
 placed them on the table, and said to liis guest, —
 
 XOAH AND MIOSES. 179 
 
 " Help yourself; there's water in tliat jar in the 
 comer." 
 
 " I dunnut knaw that there 's mich need, for all a 
 body is dry (thirsty) in a morning," said the fustian 
 gentleman, rising and doing as requested. 
 
 " Will you tak' naught yourseln, ]Mr. Moore ? " he 
 inquired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, 
 and haying tested it by a deep draught, sank back 
 satisfied and bland in his seat. Moore — chary of words 
 — replied by a negative movement and murmur. 
 
 '^ Yah'd as good," continued his visitor ; " it 'uld 
 set ye up, wald a sup o' this stuff. Uncommon good 
 Hollands ! ye get it fro' furrin' parts, I'se think ? " 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 '' Tak' my advice, and try a glass on't ; them lads 
 'at 's coming '11 keep ye talking, nob'dy knows how 
 long : ye '11 need propping." 
 
 "Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning?" in- 
 quired Moore. 
 
 '^ I seed him a hauf an hour — nay — happen a 
 quarter of an hour sin', just afore I set off: he said 
 he auned to come here, and I sudn't wonder but 
 ye '11 have old Helstone too ; I seed 'em saddling his 
 little nag as I passed at back o' t' Rectory." 
 
 The speaker was a true prophet, for the trot of a 
 little nag's hoofs were, five minutes after, heard in 
 the yard ; it stopped, and a well-known nasal voics 
 cried aloud — '' Boy (probably addressing Harry 
 
 K^2
 
 180 SHIRLEY. 
 
 Scott, who usually hung about the premises from 
 nine A. M. to five P. M.), take my horse and lead him 
 into the stable." 
 
 Helstone came in, marching nimbly and erect, 
 looking browner, keener, an^ livelier than usual. 
 
 " Beautiful morning, IMoore : how do, my boy ? 
 Ha ! ^Vliom have we here (turning to the personage 
 with the staff) ? Sugden ! T\Tiat I 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 are on the right 
 scent ? How do you mean to set about the business ? 
 Have you got a warrant ? " 
 
 *' Sugden has." 
 
 " Then you are going to seek him now ? 1 11 
 accompany you." 
 
 " You will be spared that trouble, sir ; he is com- 
 ing to seek me. I 'm just now sitting in state, 
 waiting his arrival." 
 
 " And who is it ? One of my parishioners ? " 
 
 Joe Scott had entered unobserved ; he now stood, 
 a most sinister phantom, half his person being dyed 
 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 
 pawky look, he said, — 
 
 " It 's a friend of yours, Mr. Helstone ; a gentle- 
 man you often speak of."
 
 NOAH AND MOSES. 181 
 
 " Indeed ! His name, Joe ? — You look well this 
 morning." 
 
 " Only the Rev. Moses Barraclough : t' tub 
 orator you call liim sometimes, I tliink." 
 
 " All ! " said tlie Rector, taking out his snufF-box, 
 and administering to himself a very long pinch — 
 '^ Ah ! couldn't have supposed it. Why, the pious 
 man never was a workman of yours, Moore ? He 's 
 a tailor by trade." 
 
 " And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for 
 interfering, and setting my discarded men against 
 me." 
 
 " And Moses was actually present at the battle 
 of Stilbro' Moor ? He went there — wooden leg: and 
 all?" 
 
 " Ay, sir," said Joe ; " he went there on horse- 
 back, that his les; mio;htn't be noticed : he was the 
 captain and wore a mask ; the rest only had their 
 faces blacked." 
 
 *' And how was he found out ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell you, sir," said Joe : " t' maister 's not 
 so fond of talking ; I 've no objections. He comied 
 Sarah, Mr. Moore's sarvant 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 amang werseln when there 
 none of 'em nigh) she'd have encouraged him, in
 
 182 SHIRLEY. 
 
 spite of his leg and his deceit — just to pass time 
 like ; I 've known some on 'em do as mich, and some 
 o' t' bonniest and mimest looking too — ay! I've 
 seen clean, trim young things, that looked as denty 
 and pure as daisies, and wi' time a body fun' 'em 
 out to be nowt but stinging, venomed nettles." 
 
 " Joe 's a sensible fellow," interjected Helstone. 
 
 " How^siver, Sarah had another string to her bow : 
 Fred. j\Iurgatroyd, 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 knaw — the lass took on wi' Fred. A two-three 
 months sin', Murgatroyd and Moses chanced to meet 
 one Sunday night ; they 'd both come lurking about 
 these premises wi' the notion of counselling Sarah 
 to tak' a bit of a walk wi' them ; they fell out, had 
 a tussel, and Fred, was worsted : for he 's young and 
 small, and Barraclough, for all he has only one leg, 
 is almost as strong as Sugden there ; indeed, any- 
 body that hears him roaring at a revival or a love- 
 feast, may be sure he 's no weakhng." 
 
 " Joo, you 're insupportable," here broke in Mr. 
 Moore. " You spin out your explanation as IMoses 
 spins out his sermons. The long and short of it is, 
 !Murgatroyd w^as jealous of Barraclough, 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
 
 NOAH AND MOSES. 183 
 
 was plain he had been the leader, not only at 
 Stilbro' Moor, but in the attack on Sykes'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 ^Yhinbury this morning, got a constable and 
 a warrant, and I am now waiting to give my friend 
 the reception he deserves : here, meantime, comes 
 Sykes : Mr. Helstone, you must spirit him up ; he 
 feels timid at the thoughts of prosecuting." 
 
 A gig was heard to roll into the yard : ]Mr. Sykes 
 entered; a tall stout man of about fifty, comely 
 of feature, but feeble of physiognomy : he looked 
 anxious. 
 
 " Have they been ? Are they gone ? Plave you 
 got him ? Is it over ?" he asked. 
 
 " Xot yet," returned IMoore with phlegm. " TVe 
 are waiting for them." 
 
 " They '11 not come ; it 's near noon : better give 
 it up ; it will excite bad feeling — malvc 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 in the law proceed- 
 ings : a wife and family, Mr. Moore — a wife and 
 family make a man cautious."
 
 184 SHIRLEY. 
 
 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 forebore — 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. Helstone. The wine and water 
 was HoUands-and-water, as Mr. Sykes discovered 
 when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming 
 ttimbler thereof : it transfigured him in two minutes, 
 brought the colour back to his face, and made him 
 at least icord-Yalmnt. He now announced that he 
 hoped he was above being trampled on by the com- 
 mon people ; he was determined to endure the inso- 
 lence of the wOi'kino^- classes no lono;er ; he had 
 considered of it and made up his mind to go aU 
 lengths; if money and spirit could put down these 
 rioters, they should be put down ; Mr. Moore might 
 do as he liked, but he — Christie Sykes — would spend 
 his last penny in law l^efore he woidd be beaten : 
 he 'd settle them, or he 'd see." 
 
 " Take another i^lass," urij^cd Moore. 
 
 Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did ; this was a cold 
 morning (Sugden had found it a warm one) ; it was 
 necessary to be careful at this season of the year — it 
 was proper to take something to keep the damp out ;
 
 NOAH AXD MOSES. 185 
 
 he had a little cough abeady (here he coughed in 
 attestation of the fact) ; something of this sort (lift- 
 ing the black bottle) was excellent taken medici- 
 nally (he poured the physic into his tumbler) ; he 
 didn't make a practice of drinking spirits in a morning, 
 but occasionally it really was prudent to take pre- 
 cautions. 
 
 " Quite prudent, and take them by all means,'* 
 urged the host. 
 
 ]\Ir. Sykes now addressed iMr. Helstone, who 
 stood on the hearth, his shovel-hat on his head, 
 watching him significantly with his little keen eyes. 
 
 ^'You, sir, as a clergyman," said he, "may feel 
 it disagreeable to be present amidst scenes of hurry 
 and flurry, and, I may say, peril : I dare say 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 l:)eUigerent. Really 
 there 's an ardour excited by the thoughts of danger 
 that makes my heart pant. TMien IVIrs, Sykes is 
 afraid of the house being attacked and broke 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 be- 
 lieve I should enjoy it, such is my spirit." 
 
 The hardest of laughs, though brief and low, and 
 by no means insulting, was the response of the 
 Hector. Moore would have pressed upon the heroic
 
 186 SHIRLEY. 
 
 millowner a third tumbler, but the clergyman, who 
 never transgressed, nor would suffer others in his 
 presence to transgress the bounds of decorum, 
 checked liim. 
 
 " Enough is as good as a feast, is it not, Mr. 
 Sjkes?" he said, and Mr. Sykes assented; and then 
 sat and watched Joe Scott remove the bottle at a 
 sign from Helstone, with a self-satisfied simper on 
 his lips, and a regretful glisten in his eye. Moore 
 looked as if he should have liked to fool him to the 
 top of his bent. What would a certain young kins- 
 woman of his have said, could he have seen her 
 dear, good, great Eobert — her Coriolanus — just 
 now? Would she have acknowledged in that mis- 
 chievous 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 Shakspeare and listening to 
 Chenier ? 
 
 Yes, it was the same man, only seen on a different 
 side ; a side Caroline had not yet fairly beheld, 
 though perhaps she had enough sagacity faintly to 
 suspect its existence. Well, Caroline had, doubt- 
 less, her defective side too: she was human, she 
 must then have been very imperfect, and had she 
 seen Moore on his very worst side, she would pro-
 
 NOAH AND :.I05ES. 187 
 
 bably have said tliis to herself and excused him. 
 Love can excuse anything except Meanness; but 
 Meanness kills Love, cripples even Xatural Affec- 
 tion: ^'ithout Esteem, Tme Love cannot exist. 
 Moore with all his faults might be esteemed; for 
 he had no moral scrofula in his mind, no hopeless 
 polluting taint, such, for instance, as that of false- 
 hood; neither was he the slave of his appetites; the 
 active life to which he had been bom and bred had 
 given him something else to do than to- join the 
 futile chase of the pleasure-hunter: he was a man 
 undegraded, the disciple of Eeason, not the votary 
 of Sense. The same might be said of old Helstone : 
 neither of these two would look, think, or speak a He ; 
 for neither of them had the wretched black bottle 
 which had just been put away any channs ; both might 
 boast a valid claim to the proud title of " lord of the 
 creation," for no animal vice vras lord of them : they 
 looked and were superior beings to poor Sykes. 
 
 A sort of gathering and tramphng sound was 
 heaixl in the yard, and then a pause. Moore walked 
 to the window, Helstone followed; both stood on 
 one side, the tall junior behind the under-sized 
 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.
 
 188 SHIRLEY. 
 
 followed by the interjection, "Whisht!" designed, 
 as it seemed, to stiU the hum of several voices. 
 Moore 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, ay !" said Joe, nonchalantly. 
 
 ^' Would you, then, if you please (emphasis on 
 *you'), have the goodness to tell him that twelve 
 gentlemen wants to see hun." 
 
 " He'd happen ax what for," suggested Joe. "I 
 mu2^ht as weel tell him that at t' same time." 
 
 " For a purpose," was the answer. Joe entered. 
 
 " Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to 
 see ye * for a purpose.' " 
 
 " Good, Joe ; I 'm their man. Sugden, come 
 when I whistle." 
 
 Moore went out, chuckling drily. He 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 conspicu- 
 ously in the van of the party. One, a httle dapper 
 strutting man, with a turned-up nose ; the other, 
 a broad-shouldered fellow, distinguished no less by
 
 NOAH AND MOSES. 189 
 
 his demure face and cat-like, trustless ejes, tlian by 
 a wooden leg and stout crutcli : 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. Barraclough," said ]Moore 
 debonnairely, for him. 
 
 " Peace be unto you ! " was the answer : Mr. Bar- 
 raclough entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes 
 as he delivered it. 
 
 ^' I 'm obhged 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 Barraclough, " it 's 
 3ne that may sound strange, and perhaps foolish to 
 ears hke yours, for the childer of this world is wiser 
 in their generation than the clulder of light." 
 
 ^'To the point, if you please, and let me hear 
 what it is." 
 
 " Ye 'se hear, sir ; if I cannot get it off, there 's 
 eleven behint can help me. It is a grand pui-pose, 
 and (changiQg his voice from a half-sneer to a whine) 
 it's the Looard's own purpose, and that's better." 
 
 " Do you want a subscription to a new Ranter's 
 chapel, Mr, Barraclough? Unless your errand be 
 something of that sort, I cannot see what you have 
 to do with it."
 
 190 SniELEY. 
 
 "I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; but as 
 Providence has led ye to mention the subject, I '11 
 make it i' my way to tak' ony trifle ye may have 
 to spare, the smallest contribution will be accept- 
 able." 
 
 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 sixpence, you would drink it." 
 
 Barraclough 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 drily ; " you don't care for shewing 
 me that you are a double-dyed 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."' 
 
 ]\Ioses' countenance lowered ; he saw he had 
 gone too far: he was going to answer, when the 
 second leader, impatient of being hitherto kept in 
 the l:)ackground, stepped forward. This man did 
 not look like a traitor, though he had an exceed- 
 ingly self-confident and conceited air. 
 
 *^Mr. jNIoore," commenced he, speaking also in 
 his throat and nose, and enunciating eacli word 
 very slowly, as if with a view to giving liis audience
 
 NOAH AXD MOSES. 191 
 
 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 to 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), wliich will pro- 
 bably terminate in — in bringing you to a sense of 
 the unwisdom, of the — the foolishness, which seems 
 to guide and guard your perceedings as a trades- 
 man in this — this manufacturing part of the country. 
 Hem! .... sir, I would beg to aUude that 
 as a furriner, coming from a distant coast, another 
 cpaarter and hemisphere of this globe, thrown, as I 
 may say, a perfect outcast on these shores — the 
 chfFs of Albion — you have not that understanding 
 of huz and wer ways wliich might conduce to the 
 benefit of the working-classes. If, to come at once 
 to partic'lars, you 'd consider to give up tliis here 
 miln, and go without further protractions straight 
 home to where you belong, it 'ud happen be as 
 well. I can see naught ageean such a plan. "What 
 hev ye to ?ay tull 't, lads?" turning round to the 
 other members of the deputation, avIio responded 
 unanimously, " Hear ! hear ! " 
 
 "Brayvo, Xoah o' Tim's!" murmiu-ed Joe Scott, 
 Avho stood behind Mr. IMoore. "Moses '11 niver 
 beat that — Cliffs 'o Albion, and t 'other hemisphere !
 
 192 SHIRLEY. 
 
 my certy! Did ye come fro' tK' Antarctic Zone, 
 maister? Moses is dished." 
 
 Moses, however, refused to be dished ; he thought 
 he would try again. Casting a somewhat ireful 
 glance at " IN^oah o' Tim's," he launched out in his 
 turn : and now he spoke in a serious tone, relinquish- 
 ing the sarcasm which he found had not answered. 
 
 " Or iver you set up the pole o' your tent amaug 
 us, iVIr. Moore, we lived i' peace and quietness ; yea, 
 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 mis- 
 chief-maker' had ventured to introduce these here 
 machines, which is so pernicious. Now, I *m not 
 a cloth-dresser myself, but by trade a tailor; hows- 
 iver, my heart is of a softish natur' : I 'm a very 
 feeling man, and when I see my brethren oppressed, 
 like my great namesake of old, I stand up for 'em ; 
 for which intent, I this day speak with you face 
 to face, and advises you to part wi' yoiu' infernal 
 machinery, and tak' on more hands." 
 
 " "\Yliat if I don't follow your advice, Mr. Barra- 
 clough?" 
 
 " The Looard pardon you. The Looard soften 
 your heart, sir!" 
 
 " Are you in connection with the Wesleyans 
 now, Mr. Barraclou2:h ? "
 
 NOAH AXD MOSES. 193 
 
 "Praise God! Bless His Name I I'm a joined 
 Methody!" 
 
 "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 laid dead-drunk 
 by the roadside, as I returned from Stilbro' market ; 
 and while you preach peace, you make it the busi- 
 ness 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 pui-poses of your own ; so does the 
 individual called Noah o' Tim's. You two are 
 restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels, whose 
 chief motive-principle is a selfish ambition, as dan- 
 gerous as it is puerile. The persons behind you 
 are some of them honest though misguided men ; but 
 you two I count altogether bad." 
 
 Barraclough was going to speak. 
 
 " Silence ! You have had your say, and now I will 
 have mine. As to being dictated to by you, or any 
 Jack, Jem, 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 I Here I stay ; and by this mill I stand ; and 
 into it will I convey the best macliinery inventors 
 can furnish. AYliat will you do ? The utmost you 
 can do — and this you will never dare to do — is to 
 
 YOL. I. O
 
 194 SHIRLEY. 
 
 bura clown my mill, destroy it* contents, and shoot 
 me. "Wliat 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 ? — Xot for the fraction of a second 
 of time ! Another and better gig-mill would rise on 
 the ruins of this, and perhaps a more enterprising 
 owner come in my place. Hear me I — I '11 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 tliis, shall dare to 
 interfere with me, may just take the consequences. 
 An example shall prove I 'm in earnest." 
 
 He whistled shrill and loud. Sugden, his staff 
 and warrant came on to the scene. 
 
 Moore turned sharply to Barraclough : " You were 
 at Stilbro'," 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 ! Sugden, arrest liim !" 
 
 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 Sugden and the prisoner.
 
 ?^^OAH AND MOSES. 195 
 
 and to bolt the door kiside. 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 two who had pre- 
 viously spoken : he was hard-favoured, but modest, 
 and manly-looking. 
 
 " I 've not much faith i' Moses Barraclough," said 
 he ; " and I would speak a word to you myseln, Mr. 
 Moore. It 's out o' no ill-will that I 'm here, for my 
 part; it's just to mak' a effort to get things straightened, 
 for they 're sorely a crooked. Ye see we 're Ul off, — 
 varry ill off: wer families is poor and pined. We're 
 thrown out o' work wi' these frames: we can get 
 nought to do : we can earn nought, Wliat is to be 
 done? Mun we say, wisht! and lig us down and 
 dee? Nay: I've no grand words at my tongue's 
 end, Mr. Moore, but I feel that it wad be a low 
 principle for a reasonable man to starve to death like 
 a dumb cratur' : — I wiU n't do 't. I 'm not for 
 shedding blood: I'd neither kill a man nor hurt a 
 man; and I'm not for pulling down miUs and 
 breaking machines : for, as ye say, that way o' going 
 on '11 niver stop invention ; but I '11 talk, — I 'U mak' 
 as big a din as ever I can. Invention may be all 
 
 o 2
 
 196 SHIRLEY. 
 
 right, but I know it isn't right for poor folks to 
 starve. Them that governs mun find a way to help 
 us : they mun mak' fresh orderations. Ye '11 say 
 that's hard to do: — so mich louder mun we shout 
 out then, for so much slacker w^ill t' Parliament-men 
 be to set on to 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." 
 
 " Ye 're a raight hard 'un ! " returned the work- 
 man. " Will n't ye gie us a bit o' time ? — Will n't 
 ye consent to mak' your changes rather more slowly?" 
 
 " Am I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire ? 
 Answer me that ! " 
 
 " Ye 're yourseln." 
 
 " 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 wish me to do, I 
 should be bankrupt in a month: and would my 
 bankruptcy put bread into your hungry children's 
 mouths ? William Farren, neither to your dictation, 
 nor to that of any other, will I submit. Talk to me 
 no more about macliinery ; I will have my own way. 
 I shall get new frames in to-morrow : — If you broke 
 these, I would still get more. /'// never give in.'' 
 
 Here the mill-bell rano; twelve o'clock : it was tlic 
 dinner hour. INIoore abruptly tm-ned from the 
 deputation and re-entered liis counting-house.
 
 XOAH AND MOSES. 197 
 
 His last words had left a bad, harsh impression : 
 he, at least, had " failed in the disposing of a chance 
 he was lord of." By speaking kindly to William 
 Farren, — who was a very honest man, without envy 
 or hatred of those more happily circumstanced than 
 himself; thinking it no hardship and no injustice to 
 be forced to live by labour ; disposed to be honour- 
 ably content if he could but get work to do, — 
 Moore mischt have made a friend. It seemed won- 
 derful how he could turn from such a man without a 
 concihatory or a sympathizing expression. The poor 
 fellow's face looked hag-siard 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 
 past ; and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in 
 his countenance : it was worn, dejected, austere, but 
 still patient. How could IMoore leave him thus, 
 with the words "I'll never give in," and not a 
 whisper of good«will, or hope, or aid ? 
 
 Farren, as he went home to his cottage, — once, in 
 better times, a decent, clean, pleasant place ; but now, 
 though still clean, very dreary, because so poor — 
 asked himself this question. He concluded that the 
 foreign mill-owner was a selfish, an 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.
 
 198 SHIRLEY. 
 
 On his entrance, lils wife served out, in orderly- 
 sort, such dinner as she had to give him and the 
 bairns : 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: wliile liis wife quieted 
 them as well as she could, he left his seat, and went 
 to the door. He whistled a cheery stave, whicli did 
 not, however, prevent a broad drop or two (much 
 more Kke the " first of a thunder-shower " than those 
 which oozed from the wound of the gladiator) from 
 gathering on the lids of his gray eyes, and plashing 
 thence to the threshold. He cleared his vision with 
 his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stem 
 one followed. 
 
 He still stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman 
 in black came up — a clergyman, it might be seen at 
 once ; but neither Helstone, nor Malone, nor Donne, 
 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, w ore 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. 
 
 " Middhng, IMr. Hall : how are ye ? Will ye step 
 in and rest ye ?"
 
 KOAH AND MOSES. 199 
 
 Mr. Hall, whose name the reader has seen men- 
 tioned before, (and who, indeed, was vicar of Nunnely, 
 of which parish Farren was a native, and from whence 
 he had removed but three years ago to reside in 
 Briarfield, for the convenience of being near Hollow's- 
 mill, where he had obtained work) entered the 
 cottage, and, having greeted the goodwife and the 
 children, sat down. He proceeded to talk very cheer- 
 ^ fully 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 was 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, and at the meagre and wan 
 faces of the circle about him — for the children had 
 come round liis knee, and the father and mother 
 stood before him — ^lie said, abruptly, — 
 
 " And how are you all ? How do you 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 expres- 
 sions. 
 
 "We get on poorly," said William: "we're all 
 out of work. I 've selled most o' t' household stuff, 
 as ye may see ; and what we 're to do next, God 
 knows."
 
 200 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Has Mr. ]\Ioore turned you off?" 
 
 "He has turned us off; and I've sich an opinion 
 of him now, that I think, if he 'd tak' me on again to- 
 morrow, I wouldn't work for him." 
 
 *' It is not hke you to say so, WiUiam." 
 
 "I know it isn't; but I'm getting different to 
 mysel' : I feel I am changing. I wad n't heed, if t' 
 bairns and t' 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. Wilham, sit down ; Grace, sit down ; let us 
 talk it over." 
 
 And in order the better to talk it over, Mr. Hall 
 lifted the least of the childi^en on to his knee, and 
 placed his hand on the head of the next least ; but 
 when the small tilings began to chatter to him, he bid 
 them "Whisht!" and, fixing his eyes on the grate, 
 he reirarded the handful of embers which burnt there 
 very gravely. 
 
 *' Sad times ! " he said, " and they last long. It is 
 the win of God : His wiU be done ! but He tries us to 
 the utmost." 
 
 Again he reflected. 
 
 " You 've no money, William, and you 've nothing 
 you could seU to raise a small sum ?" 
 
 " No ; I Ve selled t' chest o' drawers, and t' clock, 
 and t' bit of a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny
 
 XOAH AND MOSES. 201 
 
 tea-tray and set o' cheeney 'at she brought for a por- 
 tion 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 ? " 
 
 Farren did not answer ; but his wife said quickly, 
 " Ay, I 'm sure he could, sir ; he 's a yery contriving 
 chap, is our William. If he 'd two or three pounds, 
 he could begin selling stuiF." 
 
 '' Could you, WilKam?" 
 
 " Please God," returned William, deliberately, " I 
 could buy groceries, and bits o' tapes, and thread, and 
 what I thought would sell, and I could begin hawk- 
 ing at first." 
 
 " And you know, sir," interposed Grace, " you 're 
 sure William would neither drink, nor idle, nor 
 waste in any way. He 's my husband, and I 
 should n't praise him, but I loill say, there 's not a 
 soberer, honester man i' England nor he is." 
 
 " Well, I '11 speak to one or two friends, and 
 I think I can promise to let him have 5/. in a day or 
 two : as a loan, ye mind, 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, Grace, 
 just to keep the pot boiling till custom comes. 
 Now, bairns, stand up in a row and say your cate-
 
 202 SHIRLEY. 
 
 chism, while your mother goes and buys some dinner: 
 for you 've not had much to-day, I '11 be bound. 
 You begin, Ben. ^Yhat is your name?" 
 
 IVIr. Hall stayed till Grace came back; then he 
 hastily took his leave, shaking, hands with both 
 Farren and his wife : just at the door, he said to 
 them a few brief but very earnest words of rehgious 
 consolation and exhortation : with a mutual " God 
 bless you, sir ! " " God bless you, my friends ! " 
 they separated.
 
 BKIAEMAIIs^S. 203 
 
 CHAPTEE yill. 
 
 BRIAE3IAIXS. 
 
 Messrs. Helstone and Sykes began to be ex- 
 tremely jocose and congratulatory with ]\Ir. Moore 
 when he returned to them after dismissing the depu- 
 tation ; he was so quiet, however, under their 
 compliments upon liis firmness, &c., and wore a 
 countenance so like a still, dark day, equally beam- 
 less 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 un- 
 assisted where his presence and conversation were a 
 nuisance :• — 
 
 " Come, sir; yom' road and mine lie partly 
 together: had we not better bear each other com- 
 pany? Well bid Moore good-morning, and leave 
 him to the happy fancies he seems disposed to in- 
 dulge." 
 
 *^ And where is Sugden?" demanded Moore, 
 looking up.
 
 204 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Ah, ha ! " cried Helstone. " I 've not been 
 quite idle while you were busy. I 've been 
 helping you a little : I flatter myself, not injudi- 
 ciously. I thought it better not to lose time ; so, 
 while you were parleying with that down-looking 
 gentleman, Farren, I think his name is, I opened 
 this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was 
 in the stable, to bring Mr. Sykes's gig round ; then I 
 smu!2:o;led Suo-den and brother Moses — wooden les* 
 and all — through the aperture, and saw them mount 
 the gig (always with our good friend Sykes's permis- 
 sion, of course). Sugden took the reins — he drives 
 like Jehu, and in another quarter of an hour, 
 Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' 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 liis 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), observed 
 that it was a grand evenmg, and he " could wish
 
 BRIAP3IAINS. 205 
 
 Mr. Moore to tak' a bit of a walk up tli' Hollow ; it 
 "vvould 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 Farrens ? They are 
 not well off, I suppose?" 
 
 " They cannot be well off, sir, when they 've not 
 had work as a three month. Ye 'd see yoursel' 'at 
 William 's sorely changed, — fair pared : they 've 
 selled most o' t' stuff out o' th' house." 
 
 '' He was not a bad workman ?" 
 
 " Ye never had a better, sir, sin' ye began trade." 
 
 " And decent people — the whole family?" 
 
 " Niver dacenter : th' wife 's a raight cant body, 
 
 and as clean ! ye mught eat your porridge of 
 
 th' house floor : they 're sorely comed down. I wish 
 William could get a job as gardener or summat i' 
 that way ; he understands gardening weel. He once 
 lived wi' a Scotchman that tached him the mysteries 
 o' that craft, as they say." 
 
 " Kow, then, you can go, Joe ; you need not stand 
 there staring at me." 
 
 " Ye 've no orders to give, sii' ? "
 
 206 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " None, but for you to take yourself off." 
 Whicli Joe did accordingly. 
 
 Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and 
 though tliis had been a fine day, warm even in 
 the morning and meridian sunshine, the air chilled 
 at sunset, the ground crisped, and ere dusk, a hoar 
 frost was insidiously stealing over growing grass 
 and unfolding bud. It whitened the pavement in 
 front of Briarmains (Mr. Yorke'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 if starry night, lights 
 from windows shone vividly : this was no dark or 
 lonely scene, nor even a silent one. Briarmains 
 stood near the highway ; it was rather an old place, 
 and had been built ere that 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 hum was heard, its glare distinctly 
 seen. Briar-chapel, a large, new, raw, Wesleyan 
 place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant ; 
 and, as there was even now a prayer-meeting being
 
 BRIARMAINS. 207 
 
 held within its walls, the iUumination of its windows 
 cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hyron 
 of a most extraordinary description, such as a very 
 Quaker might feel himself moved by the spirit 
 to dance to, roused cheerily all the echoes of the 
 vicinage. The words were distinctly audible by 
 snatches: here is a quotation or two from different 
 strains ; for the singers passed jauntily from hymn 
 to hymn and from tune to tune, with an ease and 
 buoyancy all their own. 
 
 " Oh ! who can explam 
 
 This struggle for life, 
 This travail and pain. 
 
 This trembling and strife ? 
 Plague, earthquake, and famine, 
 
 And tumult and war, 
 The wonderful coming 
 
 Of Jesus declare ! 
 
 " For every fight 
 
 Is dreadful and loud, — 
 The warrior's delight 
 
 Is slaughter and blood ; 
 His foes overturning, 
 
 Till all shall expire,— 
 And this is with burning, 
 
 And fuel, and fire ! " 
 
 Here followed an interval of clamorous prayer, 
 accompanied by fearful groans. A shout of " I 've 
 found liberty !" "Doad o' Bill's has fun liberty !"
 
 208 SHIRLEY. 
 
 rung 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 enroU'd, 
 "With thy people to live and to die ! 
 
 ** Oh ! the goodness of God 
 
 In employing a clod 
 His tribute of glory to raise ; 
 
 His standard to bear, 
 
 And with triumph declare 
 His unspeakable riches of grace ! 
 
 " Oh, the fathomless love, 
 
 That has deigned to approve 
 And prosper the work of my hands ; 
 
 With my pastoral crook, 
 
 I went over the brook, 
 And behold I am spread into bands ! 
 
 '* Who, I ask in amaze, 
 
 Hath begotten me these ? 
 And inquire from what quarter they came ; 
 
 INIy full heart it replies, 
 
 They are born from the skies, 
 And gives glory to God and the Lamb ! " 
 
 The stanza which followed this, after another and 
 longer interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, 
 frantic cries, agonized groans, seemed to cap the 
 climax of noise and zeal.
 
 BRIARMAIXS. 209 
 
 *^ Sleeping on the brink of sin, 
 Tophet gaped to take us in ; 
 Mercy to our rescue flew, — 
 Broke the snare, and brought us through. 
 
 " Here, as in a lion's den, 
 Undevoured we still remain ; 
 Pass secure the watery flood, 
 Hanging on the arm of God. 
 
 «' Here " 
 
 (Terrible, most distracting to the ear was the 
 strained sliout in wliicli the last stanza was given). 
 
 " Here we raise our voices higher, 
 Shout in the refiner's fire ; 
 Clap our hands amidst the flame, 
 Glory give to Jesus' name ! " 
 
 The roof of the chapel did not fly off; which speaks 
 volumes in praise of its solid slating. 
 
 But if Briar-chapel seemed alive, so also did Briar- 
 mains: though certainly the mansion appeared to 
 enjoy a quieter phase of existence than the temple ; 
 some of its windows too were a-glow : the lower 
 casements opened upon the lawn, cm-tains concealed 
 the interior, and partly obscured the ray of the 
 candles which ht 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 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 SHIRLEY. 
 
 ]\Ir. Yorke's liabitation lively, for there is none 
 within it save his own family, and they are as- 
 sembled in that farthest room to the right, the 
 back-parlour. 
 
 This is the usual sitting-room of an evening. 
 Those windows would be seen by daylight to be of 
 brilliantly-stained glass — pur^jle and amber the 
 predominant hues, glittering round a gravely-tinted 
 medallion in the [centre of each, representing the 
 suave head of William Shakspeare, and the serene 
 one of John Mikon. Some Canadian views hang on 
 the waUs — green forest and blue water-scenery — and 
 in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption of 
 Vesu\dus; 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, coal fire, heaped high in the ample chimney. 
 Mr. Yorke will have such fires even in warm summer 
 weather ; he sits beside it with a book in his hand, a 
 little round stand at his elbow supporting a candle — 
 but he is not reading, he is watching his children. 
 Opposite to him sits his lady — a personage whom I 
 might describe minutely, but I feel no vocation to 
 Xhc task. I see her, though, very plainly before me : 
 a large woman of the gravest aspect, care on her
 
 BKIARMAIXS. 211 
 
 front and on her shoulders — ^but not overwhelming, 
 inevitable care — rather the sort of voluntary, exem- 
 plary cloud and burden people ever carry who deem 
 it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, weU-a-day ! Mrs. 
 Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she 
 was morning, noon, and night ; and hard things she 
 thought of any unhappy wight — 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 nurthful was to be profane ; to be 
 cheerful Avas to be frivolous : she drew no dis- 
 tinctions. Yet she was a very good wife, a very 
 careful mother, 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: aU his relations were 
 insupportable to her, and she kept them at arm's 
 length. 
 
 IVIr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly weU ; 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. T\Tiy 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 Yorke had a 
 shadowy as weU as a sunny side to his character, and 
 
 r 2
 
 212 SHIRLEY. 
 
 that his shadowy side found sympathy and affinity in 
 the whole of liis wife's uniformly overcast nature. 
 For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman ; never 
 said 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, immitigable suspicion of aU men, 
 things, creeds, and parties : this suspicion was a mist 
 before her eyes, a false guide in her path, wherever 
 she looked, wherever she turned. 
 
 It may be supposed that the children of such a 
 pair were not likely to turn out quite ordinary, 
 common-place 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 one 
 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 two next are girls, Kose and Jessy ; they are 
 both now at their fiither'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 lilvc him of the whole group, — but 
 it is a granite head copied in ivory ; all is softened in 
 colour and line. Yorke himself has a harsh face ;
 
 BRIAEMAINS. 213 
 
 his daughter's is not liarsb, neither is it quite pretty ; 
 it is simple, — childlike in feature ; the round cheeks 
 bloom : as to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than 
 childhke, — a serious soul lights them, — a young soul 
 yet, but it wiU mature, if the body lives ; and neither 
 father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. 
 Partaking of the essence of each, it wiU 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 mind ftJl-set, thick 
 sown with the germs of ideas her mother never 
 knew. It is agony to her often to have these ideas 
 trampled on and repressed. She has never rebelled 
 yet ; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and 
 then it will be once 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 Avill not hve, 
 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 Jessy will die young, 
 she is so gay and chattering, , arch — original even 
 now ; passionate when provoked, but most affec- 
 tionate if caressed ; by turns gentle and rattling ; 
 exacting yet generous; fearless — of her mother for
 
 214 SHIRLEY. 
 
 instance, whose irrationally hard and strict rule she 
 has often defied — yet reliant on any who will help 
 her. Jessy, with her little piquant 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 fixther, and yet the phy- 
 siognomy — ^how different ! 
 
 Mr. Yorke, 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 tliis 
 night, what would you think? The magic miiTor is 
 here : you shall learn their destinies — and first that of 
 your little life, Jessy. 
 
 " Do you know this place ? No, you never saw 
 it ; but you recognise the nature of these trees, this 
 foliage, — the cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone 
 crosses like these are not unfamihar to you, nor are 
 these dim garlands of everlasting flowers. Here is 
 the place ; green sod and a gray marble lieadstone — 
 Jessy sleeps below. She lived tlu-ough an April 
 day ; much loved was she, much loving. She often, 
 in her brief life, shed tears, she had frequent sor- 
 rows ; she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw 
 her. Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's 
 guardian arms, for Rose had been her stay and 
 defence tlu-ough many trials : the dying and the 
 watching English girls were at that hour alone in a
 
 BRIAEMAIXS. 215 
 
 foreign country, and the soil of that country gave 
 Jessy a grave. 
 
 Xow, behold Rose, two years later. The crosses 
 and garlands looked 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. Tliis is some 
 vii'gin soHtude : unknown birds flutter round the 
 skirts of that forest ; no Eiu'opean river this, on 
 whose banks Rose sits thinking. The little, quiet 
 Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant in some region 
 of the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come 
 back? 
 
 The three eldest of the family are all boys : IMat- 
 thew, 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, are the whole trio ; 
 small English features they aU possess; aU own a 
 blended resemblance to ske and mother, and yet a 
 distinctive physiognomy, mark of a separate charac- 
 ter, 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 
 \-isage hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking 
 boy ; that jet-black haii*, white brow, high-coloured
 
 216 SHIRLEY. 
 
 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 IMatthew's face seems to bear 
 an affinity, and of which, ever and anon, it reminds 
 you strangely — the eruption of Vesuvius. 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 shone there. He has an 
 English frame, but, apparently, not an English mind: 
 you would say, an Italian stiletto in a sheath of 
 British workmanship. He is crossed in the game — 
 look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does 
 he say ? In a low voice, he pleads : " Mark and 
 Martin, don't anger your brother." And tliis is ever 
 the tone adopted by both parents. Theoretically, 
 they decry partiality ; no rights of primogeniture are 
 to. be allowed in that house ; but Matthew is never 
 to be vexed, never to be opposed : they avert provo- 
 cation from him as assiduously as they would avert 
 fire from a barrel of gunpowder. " Ccjncede, con- 
 ciliate," is their motto w^herever he is concerned. 
 The republicans are fast making a tyrant of their 
 own flesh and blood. This the yo anger 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 sown amongst Mr. Yorke's
 
 bkiaii:mains. 217 
 
 young olive-branches : discord will one day be tbe 
 harvest. 
 
 Mark is a bonnie looking boy, the most regular- 
 featured of the family ; he is exceedingly calm ; his 
 smile is shrewd ; he can say the driest, most cutting 
 things in the cjuietest of tones. Despite his tran- 
 quillity, a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and 
 reminds you that the smoothest waters are not 
 always the safest. Besides, he is too still, unmoved, 
 phlegmatic, to be happy. Life will never have 
 much joy in it for Mark : by the time he is five-and- 
 twenty, he wiU 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 efiusions will sound to him mere rant and 
 jargon : enthusiasm will be his aversion and con- 
 tempt. Mark will have no youth : while he looks 
 juvenile and blooming, he wiU be abeady 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 win certainly be briUiant : he will pass through 
 aU its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy 
 them, then outlive them. That boy is not hand- 
 some — not so handsome as either of his brothers : he 
 is plain ; there is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and 
 he "wiU wear it tiU he is near twenty ; then he will
 
 218 SHIRLEY. 
 
 put it off: about that period, he will make himself 
 handsome. He will wear uncouth manners tiU that 
 age, perhaps homely garments ; but the chrysalis 
 wiU retain the power of transfiguring itself into the 
 butterfly, and such transfiguration will, in due 
 season, take place. For a space, he will be vain, 
 probably a downright puppy, eager for pleasure, and 
 desu'ous of admiration ; athirst, too, for knowledge. 
 He wiU want aU that the world can give him, both 
 of enjoyment and lore ; he will, perhaps, take deep 
 draughts at each fount. That thirst 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. 
 
 Take ^Ir. Yorke's family in the aggregate, there 
 is as much mental power in those six young heads, as 
 much originality, as much activity and vigour of 
 brain, as — divided amongst half a dozen common- 
 place broods — would give to each rather more than 
 an average amomit of sense and capacity. !Mr. 
 Yorke knows this, and is proud of his race. York- 
 shire has such families here and there amongst her 
 hiUs and wolds — peculiar, racy, vigorous ; of good 
 blood and strong brain; tm'bulent somewhat in the 
 pride of their strength, and intractable in the force of 
 their native powers; wanting polish, wanting con- 
 sideration, wanting docility, but sound, spii'ited, and
 
 BRIAEMAINS. 219 
 
 true-bred as the eagle on the cliff or the steed in the 
 steppe. 
 
 A low tap is heard at the parlour door ; the boys 
 have been making such a noise over their game, and 
 little Jessy, 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 
 daug-hter some of the best — that the rins^ at the outer 
 door was not obsen^ed. 
 
 '^ Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously 
 constrained and solemnized voice of hers ; which ever 
 modulates itself to a funereal dreariness of tone, though 
 the subject it 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 
 OTrls to their sewino:: ^^ Come in I" And in came 
 Eobert ]\Ioore. 
 
 Moore's habitual gravity, as well as his abstemious- 
 ness (for the case of spirit-decanters is never ordered 
 up when he pays an evening visit), has so far recom- 
 mended him to Mrs. Yorke, that she has not yet 
 made him the subject of private animadversions with 
 her husband : she has not yet found out that he is 
 hampered by a secret intrigue which prevents him 
 fropa marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's cloth- 
 ing ; discoveries which she made at an early date 
 after marriage concerning most of her husband's 
 bachelor friends, and excluded them from her board
 
 220 SHIRLEY. 
 
 accordingly : wliich part of her conduct, indeed, 
 might be said to have its just and sensible, 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. " "Wliat are you 
 rovino; about at this time of ni2:ht for ? You should 
 be at home." 
 
 " Can a single man be said to have a home, madam ? '* 
 he asks. 
 
 "Pooh!" says Mrs. Yorke, who despises conven- 
 tional smoothness quite as much as her husband does, 
 and practises it as little, and whose plain speaking, on 
 all occasions, is carried to a point calculated, sometimes, 
 to awaken admii-ation, but oftener alarm — " Pooh ! 
 you 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. Yorke. '^ Hortense is 
 an honest lass ; but when I was Robert's age, I had 
 five or six sisters, all as decent and proper as she is, 
 but you see, Hesther, for all that, it did not hinder 
 me from looking out for a wife." 
 
 " And sorely he has repented marrying me," added 
 Mrs. Yorke, 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 sec his punishment (here she pointed to
 
 BRIARMAIKS. 221 
 
 her children). Who would burden themselves with 
 such a set of great, rough lads as those, if 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 mar- 
 riage." 
 
 A lugubrious sentiment of this sort was sure to 
 obtain Mrs. Yorke'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 sitting as standing ? " 
 
 This was her way of inviting her guest to take a 
 chair ; he had no sooner obeyed her, than little Jessy 
 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 slie 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
 
 222 SHIRLEY. 
 
 accustomed to say papa and mama; their mother 
 would allow no such " namby-pamby.") 
 
 " Ay, my little lassie, he promised ; I 'U bear 
 witness. But make him say it over again now, 
 Jessy : such as he are only false loons." 
 
 " He is not false : he is too bonnie to be false," 
 said Jessy, looking up to her taU sweetheart with the 
 fullest confidence in his faith. 
 
 " Bonnie ! " cried ^Ir. Yorke ; " that 's the reason 
 that he should be, and proof that he is — a scoundrel." 
 
 "But he looks too sorrowful to be false," here 
 interposed a 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. Yorke. 
 
 " He 's not sentimental," said Rose. 
 
 ]\Ir. Moore turned to her with a little surin'ise, 
 smiling at the same time. 
 
 " How do you know I am not sentimental, 
 Eose?" 
 
 " Because I heard a lady say you were not." 
 
 "Voila, qui dcvient interessant I " exclaimed Mr. 
 Yorke, hitching his chair nearer the fire. " A lady ! 
 That has quite a romantic twang : we must guess 
 who it is. Rosy, whisper the name low to your 
 fatlier : don't let him hear."
 
 BRIAEMAIKS. 223 
 
 *^ Rose, don't be too forward to talk," here inter- 
 rupted ^Irs. Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion ; 
 " nor Jessy either : it becomes all children, es- 
 pecially girls, to be silent in the presence of their 
 elders." 
 
 '^ TThy have we tongues, then ?" asked Jessy, 
 pertly ; wliile 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' grave dehberation, she asked, — 
 
 " And why especially gh^h, mother ?" 
 
 " Firstly, because I say so ; and secondly, be- 
 cause discretion and reserve is a girl's best wis- 
 dom." 
 
 " My dear madam," observed Moore, " what you 
 say is excellent : it reminds me, indeed, of my dear 
 sister's observations ; but really it is not apphcable 
 to these little ones. Let Rose and Jessy talk to 
 me freely, or my chief pleasure in coming here is 
 gone. I like their prattle T it does me good." 
 
 " Does it not ? " asked Jessy. " More good than 
 if the rough lads came round you : you call them 
 rough, mother, yourself." 
 
 " Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more good : I 
 have rough lads enough about me all day long, 
 poulet." 
 
 " There are plenty of people," continued she, 
 " wl.o tate notice of the boys: all my uncles and
 
 224 SHIRLEY. 
 
 aunts seem to tliink their nephews 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 Hose and me. Mr. Moore is 
 our friend, and we '11 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 with an admonitory 
 gesture. 
 
 Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished by 
 that small hand; her will daily bent itself to that 
 of the impetuous little Jessy ; she was guided — 
 overruled by Jessy in a thousand things. On all 
 occasions of show and pleasure, Jessy took the lead, 
 and Rose fell quietly into the background ; whereas, 
 when the disagreeables of life — its work and pri- 
 vations were in question, Rose instinctively took 
 upon her, in addition to her own share, what she 
 could of her sister's. Jessy 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 un- 
 common 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 piquant little Jessy. Jessy, however.
 
 BRIARMAINS. 225 
 
 was destined to possess, along with sprightly intelli- 
 gence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, 
 the power to charm when, where, and whom she 
 would. Eose 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 Jessy and I went to spend the day at 
 Whinbury 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. Rosy ? '* 
 
 " Some of them were : they called you a misan- 
 thrope : I remember the word — I looked for it in 
 the dictionary when I came home : it means a man- 
 hater." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 SHIRLEY. 
 
 "What besides?" 
 
 ** Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy." 
 
 " Better ! " cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. " Oh ! 
 excellent ! Hannah — that 's the one with the red 
 hair : a fine gii'l, 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." 
 
 Ai^ain ]\Ir. Yorke laus^hed : !Mrs. Yorke even 
 joined in this thne. " You see in what esteem you 
 are held behind your back," said she ; " yet I be- 
 lieve that ]\Iis3 Pearson would like to catch you: 
 she set her cap at you when you first came into the 
 country, old as she is." 
 
 " And who contradicted her. Rosy ? " inquired 
 INIoore. 
 
 " A lady whom I don't know, because she never 
 visits here, though 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 hkc a picture in our dining-room, that 
 woman with the dove in her hand : at least she has 
 eyes Hke it, and a nose too, a straight nose, that 
 makes aU her fiice look, somehow, what I call clear."
 
 BRIARMAINS. 227 
 
 '' And you don't know her ! " exclaimed Jessy, in 
 a tone of exceeding surprise. " That's so hke 
 Eose. Mr. Moore^ I often wonder in what sort of 
 a world my sister liyes ; 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 
 CaroUne Helstone, the Rector's niece : I remember 
 all about it. Miss Helstone was quite angry with 
 Anne Pearson : she said, ' Robert INIoore is neither 
 affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character 
 utterly, or rather not one of you here knows any- 
 thing about it.' Xow, shall I tell you what she is 
 hke ? 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, their colour is brown but 
 not dark ; she speaks quietly, with a clear tone ; 
 she never makes a bustle in moving; she often 
 wears a grey 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 wlien I am as tall as 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 SHIRLEY. 
 
 she is, I mean to be like her. Shall I suit you if I 
 am ? ^Vill you really marry me ? " 
 
 Moore stroked Jessy'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 I you won't have me ? You push me 
 away." 
 
 " ^Yhy, Jessy, you care nothing about me : you 
 never come to see me now at the Hollow." 
 
 " Because you don't ask me.'' 
 
 Hereupon Mr. iMoore gave both the little girls an 
 invitation to pay him a visit next day, promising, 
 that as he was going to Stilbro' in the morning, he 
 would buy them each a present, of what nature he 
 would not then declare, but they must come and 
 see. Jessy was about to reply, when one of the 
 boys unexpectedly broke in. 
 
 " I know that i\Iiss Helstone you have all been 
 palavering about : she's an ugly girl. I hate her I 
 I hate all womenites. I wonder what they were 
 made for." 
 
 " Martin !" said his father — for jVIartin it was — 
 tlie lad only answered by turning his cynical young 
 face, half-arch, half-truculent, towards the paternal 
 chair. " Martin, my lad, thou'rt a swaggering 
 whelp, now ; thou wilt some day be an outrageous 
 puppy: but stick to those sentiments of thine. See, I'll 
 write down the words now i* my pocket-book. (The
 
 BRIARMAIXS. 229 
 
 senior took out a morocco-covered book, and delibe- 
 rately wrote therein.) Ten years hence, Martin, if 
 thou and I be both alive at that day, I "11 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. 1^11 never marry : I'll be a bachelor." 
 
 " Stick to it ! stick to it I Hesther (addressing 
 his wife) I was like him when I was his age, a 
 regular misogamist ; 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 i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my 
 nose if it had been the fashion — and aU that I might 
 make mysel' pleasing and charming to the ladies. 
 Martin will do the like." 
 
 "Will I? Never! 1'yq more sense. "WHiat a 
 Guy you were, father ! As to dressing, I make this 
 vow : FU never dress more finely than as you see me 
 at present. ^h\ 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 at them, and 
 say they are all magpies and parrots, with their 
 coats one colour, and their waistcoats anotlier, and 
 their trousers a third. Pll always wear blue cloth, 
 and nothing but blue cloth : it is beneath a human
 
 230 SHIRLEY. 
 
 being's dignity to dress himself in particoloured 
 garments." 
 
 " Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor's shop will 
 have choice of colours varied enough for thy exact- 
 ing taste ; no perfumer's stores essences exquisite 
 enough for thy ftistidious 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 Helstone'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 look- 
 ing 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 unsenti- 
 mental man is one destitute of thought, idea, or 
 notion." 
 
 And Mark stopped : he did not smile, he did not
 
 BRIAEISLAJXS. 231 
 
 look round for admiration : he had said his say, and 
 was silent. 
 
 "Ma foil mon ami/' observed Mr. Moore to 
 Yorke ; " ce sont vraiment des enfants terribles, que 
 les votres I" 
 
 Rose, 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 ]VIiss Helstone 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 Eose, " 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 spite- 
 ful." 
 
 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 freeman, 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."
 
 232 SHIRLEY. 
 
 *^ A slave ! a slave I That to a Yorke, and from 
 a Yorke ! This fellow," he added, standing up at 
 the table, and pointing across it to Matthew, — " this 
 fellow forgets, what every cottier in Briarficld knows, 
 that all born of our house have that arched instep 
 under which water can flow — ^proof that there has not 
 been a slave of the blood for three hundred years." 
 
 '^Mountebank!" said Matthew. 
 
 " Lads, be silent !" exclaimed ]\Ir. Yorke. " Mar- 
 tin, 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 I " repeated ]\Iatthew. 
 
 Here IMrs. Yorke 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 Yorke, or what right he has to use bad 
 lan<xua£ce to me," observed Martin. 
 
 " He has no right, my lad ; but forgive your 
 brother until seventy and seven times," said Mr. 
 Y^orke soothingly. 
 
 " Always alike, and theory and practice always 
 adverse I" murmured Martin as he turned to leave 
 the room.
 
 BRIAEMAIXS. 233 
 
 *' Wliere art thou going, my son?" asked the 
 father. 
 
 '' Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult : if 
 in 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 lad's frame, but he restrained himself. 
 
 " I suppose there is no objection to my withdraw- 
 ing ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Xo ; go, my lad : but remember not to bear 
 mahce." 
 
 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 dishke 
 your nature." 
 
 Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting, or at least 
 escaping, a scene — wliich a sob from Mrs. Yorke 
 warned him was likely to come on — rose, and putting 
 Jessy off his knee, he kissed her and Hose ; 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 liis hostess, he said to Mr. 
 Yorke — "May I speak a word with you?" and was 
 followed by him from the room. Their brief confe- 
 rence took place in the hall.
 
 234 SHIRLEY. 
 
 *^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?" 
 
 " William Farren." 
 
 "I know William; a right-down honest man is 
 WiUiam." 
 
 " 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 : 
 straitened on all sides as I am, I have nothing for it 
 but to push on. I thought it would be idle to pala- 
 ver long with them . I sent them away, after arrest- 
 ing a rascal amongst them, whom I hope to trans- 
 port — a feUow who preaches at the chapel yonder 
 sometimes."
 
 BRIAEMATXS. 235 
 
 *' Xot Moses Barraclougli V 
 
 « Yes/' 
 
 '* Ah ! you've arrested him ? Good ! Then out 
 of a scoundrel you're going to make a martyr : 
 you've done a wise thing." 
 
 " I've done a right thing. Well, the short and 
 the long of it is, I'm determined to get Farren a 
 place, and I reckon on you to give him one." 
 
 " This is cool, ho vr ever I " exclaimed Mr. Yorke. 
 *' 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 aU 
 the honest men in Yorkshire ? You may say that 
 would be no great charge to imdertake ; but great or 
 little, I'll none of it." 
 
 " Come, ]Mr. Yorke, what can you find for liim 
 to do?" 
 
 " / find ! You '11 make me use language 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 chaii-s. 
 
 " You can't give him w-ork in your mill — good — 
 but you have land: find him some occupation on 
 your land, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 " Bob, I thought you cared nothing about our 
 * lourdauds do pay sans:' I don't understand this 
 change."
 
 236 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " I do : the fellow spoke to me nothing but truth 
 and sense. I answered Inm just as roughly as I did 
 the rest, who jabbered mere gibberish. I couldn't 
 make distinctions there and then: liis 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 Avas a point left in my affairs to strain, 
 I w^ould strain it till it cracked again ; but I received 
 letters tliis morning which show me pretty nearly 
 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 dawns 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 w^ere 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 ^Ir. Yorke. 
 
 They passed out, closing the front-door after them, 
 and, side by side, paced the frost-white pavement to 
 and fro. 
 
 " Settle about Farren at once," urged jMr. Moore.
 
 BEIARMAIXS. 237 
 
 " You have large friiit-gardens at Yorke Mills : he 
 is a good 2:ardener : ^We him work there." 
 
 " Well, so be it. I "11 send for hira to-morrow, 
 and we '11 see. And now, my lad, you 're concerned 
 about the condition of yoiu* affairs ? " 
 
 " Yes : a second failiu'e — which I may delay, but 
 which, at this moment, I see no way finally to avert 
 — would blight the name of Moore completely ; and 
 you are aware I had fine intentions of paying off 
 every debt, and re-establishing the old firm on its 
 former basis." 
 
 " You want capital — that *s all you Avant." 
 
 " 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 
 askino' ; and if vou 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 miss 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 mamage 
 and love are superfluities, intended only for the rich, 
 who live at case, and have no need to take thought
 
 238 SHIRLEY. 
 
 for the morrow ; or desperations, the last and reck- 
 less joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to 
 rise out of the slough of their utter poverty." 
 
 " I should not think so if I were circumstanced 
 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 de- 
 pends 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 dehght in beauty : my 
 eyes and heart, Yorkc, take pleasure in a sweet, 
 young, fair face, as they are repelled by a grim, 
 ruocored, meao-re one : soft delicate lines and hues 
 please — harsh ones prejudice me. I won't have an 
 ugly wife." 
 
 " Not if she were rich." 
 
 " Xot if she were dressed in o^ems. I could not 
 love — I could not fancy — I could not endure her. 
 ^ly 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-
 
 BRIAEMAINS. 239 
 
 fayoured, couldn't you put up with the high cheek- 
 bones, the rather wide mouth, and reddish hair?" 
 
 " I '11 never try, I tell you. Grace at least I icill 
 have, and youth and symmetry — yes, and what I 
 call beauty." 
 
 " And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you 
 can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an 
 anxious faded mother — and then bankruptcy, dis- 
 credit — a hfe-long struggle." 
 
 " Let me alone, Yorke." 
 
 " K you are romantic, Robert, and especially if 
 you are already in love, it is of no use talking." 
 
 " I am not romantic. I am stript of romance as 
 bare as the white tenters in that field are of cloth." 
 
 ^^ Always use such figures of speech, lad ; I can 
 understand them : and there is no love-affair to dis- 
 turb 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 j)rofit by 
 a good chance if it offers : therefore, wait and see." 
 
 " You are quite oracular, Yorke." 
 
 " I think I am a bit i' that line. I promise ye 
 naught and I advise ye naught ; but I bid ye keep 
 your heart up, and be guided by circumstances." 
 
 " ]\Iy namesake — the physician's ahnanack could 
 not speak more guardedly."
 
 240 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " In the mean time, I care naught about ye, 
 Robert INIoore : ye are nothuig akin to me or mine, 
 and whether ye lose or find a fortune it mak's no 
 difference to me. Go home, now: it has stricken 
 ten. Miss Hortense will be wondering where ye
 
 OLD MAIDS. 241 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OLD MAIDS. 
 
 Time wore on, and spring matured. The surface of 
 England began to look pleasant: her fields grew 
 green, her hills fresli, her gardens blooming ; but at 
 heart she was no better; still her poor were 
 wretched, still their employers were harassed : com- 
 merce, in some of its branches, seemed threatened 
 with paralysis, for the war continued; England's 
 blood was shed and her wealth lavished: all, it 
 seemed, to attain most inadequate ends. ' Some 
 tidings there were indeed occasionally of successes 
 in the Peninsula, but these came in slowly: long 
 intervals occurred between, in which no note was 
 heard but the insolent self-felicitations of Bonaparte 
 on his continued triumphs. Those who suffered 
 from the results of the war felt this tedious, and — 
 as they thought — hopeless, struggle against what 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 SHIRLEY. 
 
 their fears or their interests taught them to regard 
 US an invincible power, most insufferable : they 
 demanded peace on any terms : men like Yorke and 
 Moore — and there were thousands whom the war 
 placed where it placed them, shuddering on the 
 Terge of bankruptcy — insisted on peace with the 
 energy of desperation. 
 
 They held meetings ; they made speeches ; they 
 got up petitions to extort this boon : on what terms 
 it was made, they cared not. 
 
 All men, taken singly, are more or less selfish ; and 
 taken in bodies they are intensely so. The British 
 merchant is no exception to this rule : the mercan- 
 tile classes illustrate it strikingly. These classes 
 certainly think too exclusively of making money : 
 they are too oblivious of every national considera- 
 tion but that of extending England's (z. e, their own) 
 commerce. Cliivakous feeling, disinterestedness, 
 pride in honour, is too dead in their hearts. A land 
 ruled by them alone would too often make ignomi- 
 nious submission — not at all from the motives Christ 
 teaches, but rather from those ^Mammon instils. 
 During the late war, the tradesmen of England 
 woidd have endured buffets from the French on the 
 right cheek and on the left ; their cloak they would 
 have given to Xapoleon, and then have politely 
 offered him their coat also, nor would they have 
 withheld their waistcoat if urged: they would have
 
 OLD MAIDS. 243 
 
 prayed permission only to retain their one other 
 garment^ for tlie sake of the purse in its pocket. 
 Not one spark of spirit, not one symptom of resis- 
 tance woukl they have shown till the hand of the 
 Corsican bandit had grasped that beloved purse; 
 thejif perhaps, transfigured at once into British bull- 
 dogs, they woidd have sprung at the robber's throat, 
 and there they would have fastened, and there hung 
 — inveterate, insatiable, till the treasure had been 
 restored. Tradesmen, when they speak against war, 
 always profess to hate it because it is a bloody and 
 barbarous proceeding : you would think, to hear 
 them talk, that they are pecuharly civilized — 
 especially gentle and kindly of disposition to their 
 fellovv'-men. This is not the case. Many of them 
 are extremely narrow and cold-hearted, have no 
 good feeling for any class but their own, are distant 
 — even hostile to all others ; call them useless ; seem 
 to question their right to exist ; seem to grudge them 
 the very air they breathe, and to think the circum- 
 stance of their eating, drinking, and living in decent 
 houses, quite unjustifiable. They do not loiow what 
 others do in the way of helping, pleasing, or teach- 
 ing their race ; they will not trouble themselves to 
 inquire : whoever is not in trade is accused of eating 
 the bread of idleness, of passing a useless existence. 
 Long may it be ere England really becomes a nation 
 of shopkeepers ! 
 
 R 2
 
 244 SHIRLEY. 
 
 "We have already said that Moore was no self- 
 sacrificing patriot, and we have also explained what 
 circumstances rendered him specially prone to con- 
 fine his attention and efforts to the furtherance of 
 his individual interest; accordingly, when he felt 
 himself urged a second time to the brink of ruin, 
 none struggled harder than he against the influences 
 which would have thrust him over. "WTiat he. could 
 do towards stirring agitation in the north against the 
 war, he did, and he instigated others whose money 
 and connections gave them more power than he pos- 
 sessed. Sometimes, by flashes, he felt there was 
 little reason in the demands liis party made on 
 Government: when he heard of all Europe threatened 
 by Bonaparte, and of all Europe arming to resist 
 him ; when he saw Russia menaced, and beheld 
 Russia rising, incensed and stern, to defend her 
 frozen soil, her wild provinces of serfs, her dark 
 native despotism, from the tread, the yoke, the 
 tyranny of a foreign victor, he knew that England, 
 a free realm, could not then depute her sons to make 
 concessions and propose terms to the unjust, grasping 
 French leader. When news came from time to time 
 of the movements of that man then representing 
 England in the Peninsula ; of his advance from suc- 
 cess to success — that advance so dehberate but so 
 unswerving, so circumspect but so certain, so " un- 
 hasting" but so " unresting ; '• when he read Lord
 
 OLD 3IAIDS. 245 
 
 IVellington's own despatches in the columns of the 
 newspapers, documents written by Modesty to the 
 dictation of Truth — Moore confessed at heart that a 
 power was with the troops of Britain, of that vigi- 
 lant, enduring, genuiae, unostentatious sort, which 
 must win yictorj' to the side it led, in the end. In 
 the end I but that end, he thought, was yet far off; 
 and i^j^ntime he, Moore, as an iudividual, would be 
 crushed, his hopes ground to dust : it was himself he 
 had to care for, his hopes he had to pursue, and he 
 would fulfil his destiny. 
 
 He fulfilled it so vis-orouslv that ere lonoc he came 
 to a decisive rupture with his old Tory friend, the 
 Hector. They quarrelled at a public meeting, and 
 afterwards exchanged some pungent letters in the 
 newspapers. Mr. Helstone denounced Moore as a 
 JacobiQ, ceased to see him, would not even speak to 
 him when they met : he intimated also to his niece, 
 very distinctly, that her communications with Hol- 
 low's cottage must for the present cease ; she must 
 give up taking French lessons. The language, he 
 observed, was a bad and frivolous one at the best, 
 and most of the works it boasted were bad and 
 frivolous, highly injurious in their tendency to weak 
 female minds. He wondered (he remarked paren- 
 thetically) what noodle first made it the fashion to 
 teach women French : nothing was more improper 
 for them ; it was like feeding a rickety child on
 
 246 SHIRLEY. 
 
 chalk and watcr-gruel : Caroline must give it up, 
 and give up her cousins too: they were dangerous 
 people. 
 
 Mr. Helstone quite expected opposition to this 
 order: he expected tears. Seldom did he trouble 
 himself about Caroline's movements, but a vague 
 idea possessed him that she was fond of going to 
 Hollow's cottage : also he suspected that she liked 
 Robert Moore's occasional presence at the Rectory. 
 The Cossack had perceived that whereas if Malone 
 stepped in of an evening to make himself sociable 
 and charming, by pinching the ears of an aged black 
 cat, which usually shared with Miss Helstone's feet 
 the accommodation of her footstool, or by borrowing 
 a fowlingpiece, and banging away at a tool -shed 
 door in the garden Avliile enough of daylight re- 
 mained to show that conspicuous mark — keeping 
 the passage and sitting-room doors meantime uncom- 
 fortably open, for the convenience of running in and 
 out to announce his failures and successes wdth noisy 
 brusquerie — he had observed that under such enter- 
 taining circumstances, Caroline had a trick of disap- 
 pearing, tripping noiselessly up-stairs, and remaining 
 invisible till called down to supper. On the other 
 hand, when Robert Moore was the guest, though he 
 ehcited no vivacities from the cat, did nothing to it, 
 indeed, beyond occasionally coaxing it from the stool 
 to his knee, and there letting it purr, climb to his
 
 OLD MAIDS. 247 
 
 shoulder and rub its head ao-ainst his cheek ; thouo-h 
 there was no ear-sphtting cracking off of firearms, 
 no diffusion of sulphurous gunpowder perfume, no 
 noise, no boasting during liis stay, that still Caroline 
 sat in the room, and seemed to find wondrous con- 
 tent in the stitching of Jew-basket pincushions, and 
 the knitting of Missionary -basket socks. 
 
 She was very quiet, and Robert paid her little 
 attention, scarcely ever addressing his discourse to 
 her ; but Mr. Helstone, not being one of those elderly- 
 gentlemen who are easily bhnded, on the contrary, 
 finding himself on aD. occasions extremely wide- 
 awake, had watched them when they bade each other 
 good-night : he had just seen their eyes meet once — 
 only once. Some natures would have taken pleasure 
 in the glance then surprised, because there was no 
 harm and some delight in it. It was by no means 
 a glance of mutual intelligence, for mutual love- 
 secrets existed not between them : there was nothing 
 then of craft and conceahuent to offend ; only Mr- 
 Moore's eyes, looking into Caroline's, felt they were 
 clear and gentle, and Caroline's eyes, encountering 
 Mr. Moore's, confessed they were manly and search- 
 ing : each acknoAvledged the charm in his or her 
 own way. Moore smiled slightly, and Caroline 
 coloured as slightly. Mr. Helstone could, on the 
 spot, have rated them both : they annoyed him ; 
 why? — ^impossible to say. If you had asked him
 
 248 SHIRLEY. 
 
 what ^Moore merited at that moment, he would 
 have said " a horsewhip ; " if you had inquired into 
 Caroline's deserts, he would have adjudged her a 
 box on the car ; if you had further demanded the 
 reason of such chastisements, he would have stormed 
 against flirtation and love-making, and vowed he 
 would have no such folly going on under his roof. 
 
 These private considerations, combined with poli- 
 tical reasons, fixed his resolution of separating the 
 cousins. He announced his wiU to Caroline one 
 evening, as she was sitting at work near the drawing- 
 room window: her face was turned towards him, 
 and the light fell full upon it. It had struck him 
 a few minutes before that she was looking paler 
 and quieter than she used to look ; it had not escaped 
 him either that Robert INIoore's name had never, 
 for some three weeks past, dropped from her lips ; 
 nor during the same space of time had that per- 
 sonage made his appearance at the Rectory. Some 
 suspicion of clandestine meetings haunted his mind ; 
 having but an indifferent opinion of women, he 
 always suspected them: he thought they needed 
 constant watching. It was in a tone drily signi- 
 ficant he desired her to cease her daily visits to 
 tlie HoUow ; he expected a start, a look of depre- 
 cation: the start he saw, but it was a very slight 
 one ; no look whatever was directed to him. 
 
 ** Do you hear me ?" he asked.
 
 OLD MAIDS. 249 
 
 ^^ Yes, uncle." 
 
 " Of coiirse, you mean to attend to wliat I say." 
 
 '' Yes, certainly." 
 
 " And there must be no letter-scribbling to your 
 cousin Hortense : no intercourse whatever. I do not 
 approve of the principles of the family ; they are 
 Jacobinical." 
 
 ^^ Very well," said Carohne quietly. She ac- 
 quiesced then : there was no vexed flushing of the 
 face, no gathering tears : the shadowy thoughtful- 
 ness which had covered her features ere Mr. Hel- 
 stone spoke remained undisturbed : she was obe- 
 dient. 
 
 Yes, perfectly; because the mandate coincided 
 with her own previous judgment ; because it was 
 now become pain to her to go to Hollow's cottage ; 
 nothing met her there but disappointment : hope 
 and love had quitted that little tenement, for Eobert 
 seemed to have deserted its precincts. When- 
 ever she asked after him — which she very seldom 
 did, since the mere utterance of his name made her 
 face grow hot — the answer was, he was from home, 
 or he was quite taken up with business : Hortense 
 feared he was killing himself by apphcation : he 
 scarcely ever took a meal in the house ; he Hved in 
 the counting-house. 
 
 At church only Carohne had the chance of seeing 
 him, and there she rarely looked at him : it was both
 
 250 SHIRLEY. 
 
 too much pain and too much pleasui'e to look: it 
 excited too much emotion ; and that it was all wasted 
 emotion, she had learned well to comprehend. 
 
 Once, on a dark, wet Sunday, when there were 
 few people at church, and when especially certain 
 ladies were absent, of whose observant faculties 
 and tomahawk tongues Caroline stood in awe, she 
 had allowed her eye to seek Robert's pew, and to 
 rest a while on its occupant. He was there alone : 
 Hortense had been kept at home by prudent con- 
 siderations relative to the rain and a new spring 
 " chapeau." During the sermon, he sat with folded 
 arms and eyes cast down, looking very sad and 
 abstracted. 'V^Tien depressed, the very hue of his 
 face seemed more dusk than when he smiled, and 
 to-day cheek and forehead wore their most tintless 
 and sober oHve. By instinct Caroline knew, as she 
 examined that clouded countenance, that his thoughts 
 were running in no familiar or kindly channel ; that 
 they were far away, not merely from her, but from 
 all which she could comprehend, or in wliich she 
 could sympathize. Xothing that they had ever 
 talked of together was now in his mind : he was 
 wrapt from her by interests and responsibilities in 
 which it was deemed such as she coidd have no 
 part. 
 
 Caroline meditated in her own way on the subject ; 
 speculated on his feelings, on his life, on his fears, on
 
 OLD MAIDS. 251 
 
 Ills fate ; mused over the mystery of" business," tried 
 to comprehend more about it than had ever been 
 told her — to understand its perplexities, liabilities, 
 duties, exactions ; endeavoured to reahze the state of 
 mind of a " man of business," to enter into it, feel 
 what he would feel, aspire to what he would aspire. 
 Her earnest wish was to see things as they were, and 
 not to be romantic. By dint of effort she contrived to 
 get a glimpse of the light of truth here and there, 
 and hoped that scant ray might suffice to guide her. 
 
 " Different, indeed," she concluded, " is Robert's 
 mental condition to mine : I think only of him ; he 
 has no room, no leisure to think of me. The feeUng 
 called love is and has been for two years the predo- 
 minant emotion of my heart ; always there, always 
 awake, always astir : quite other feelings absorb his 
 reflections, and govern his faculties. He is rising 
 now, going to leave the church, for service is over. 
 Will he turn his head towards this pew ? — no — not 
 once — he has not one look for me : that is hard : a 
 kind glance would have made me happy till to- 
 morrow : I have not got it ; he would not give it ; 
 he is o^one. Stranoie that s^rief should now ahnost 
 choke me, because another human being's eye has 
 failed to greet mine." 
 
 That Sunday evening, Mr. Malone coming, as 
 usual, to pass it with his Rector, Caroline withdrew 
 after tea to her chamber. Fanny, knowing her
 
 252 SHIRLEY. 
 
 habits, had lit her a cheerful little fire, as the weather 
 was so gusty and cliill. Closeted there, silent and 
 solitary, what could she do but think? She noise- 
 lessly paced to and fro the carj^eted floor ; her head 
 drooped, her hands folded : it was [irksome to sit : 
 the current of reflection ran rapidly through her 
 mind : to-night she was mutely excited. 
 
 Mute was the room, — mute the house. The 
 double-door of the study mufl^led the voices of the 
 gentlemen : the servants were quiet in the kitchen, 
 engaged with books their young mistress had lent 
 them ; books which she had told them were " fit for 
 Sunday reading." And she herself had another of the 
 same sort open on the table, but she could not read 
 it : its theology was incomprehensible to her, and her 
 own mind was too busy, teeming, wandering, to 
 listen to the lanijuao-e of another mind. 
 
 Then, too, her imagination was full of pictures: 
 images of Moore ; scenes where he and she had been 
 together; winter fireside sketches; a glowing land- 
 scape of a hot summer afternoon passed with him in 
 the bosom of Xunnely wood; divine vignettes of 
 nuld spring or mellow autiman moments, when she 
 had sat at his side in Hollow's copse, listening to the 
 call of the May cuckoo, or sharing the September 
 treasure of nuts and ripe blackberries, — a wild 
 dessert which it was her morning's pleasure to collect 
 in a little basket, and cover with green leaves and
 
 OLD :maids. 253 
 
 fresh blossoms, and her afternoon's delight to ad- 
 minister to Moore, berry by berry, and nut by nut, 
 like a bird feeding its fledghng. 
 
 Robert's features and form were with her; the 
 sound of his voice was quite distinct in her ear ; his 
 few caresses seemed renewed. But these joys being 
 hollow, were, ere long, crushed in: the pictures 
 faded, the Toice failed, the visionary clasp melted 
 chill from her hand, and where the warm seal of 
 l\-ps had made impress on her forehead, it felt now 
 as if a sleety rain-drop had fallen. She returned 
 from an enchanted resiion to the real world : for 
 Xunnely wood in June, she saw her narrow cham- 
 ber ; for the sonars of birds in alleys, she heard the 
 rain on her casement ; for the sigh of the south 
 wind, came the sob of the mournful east; and for 
 ^Moore's manly companionship, she had the thin 
 illusion of her own dun shadow on the wall. Turn- 
 ing from the pale phantom which reflected herself 
 in its outline, and lier reverie in the drooped atti- 
 tude of its dim head and colourless tresses, she sat 
 down — inaction would suit the frame of mind into 
 which she was now dechning — she said to herself: — 
 
 " I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As 
 far as I know, I have good health : half a century 
 of existence may lie before me. How am I to 
 occupy it ? What am I to do to fill the interval of 
 time which spreads between me and the grave ? " •
 
 254 SHIRLEY. 
 
 She reflected. 
 
 " I ehall not be married, it appears," she con- 
 tinued. " I suppose, as Robert does not care for 
 me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little 
 children to take care of. Till lately I had reckoned 
 securely on the duties and affections of Avife and 
 mother to occupy my existence. I considered, 
 somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing 
 up to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled my- 
 self to seek any other ; but now, I perceive plainly, 
 I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an 
 old maid. I shaU live to see Eobert married to 
 some one else, some rich lady : I shaU never marry. 
 "What Avas I created for, I wonder ? '^^^lere is my 
 place in the world ? " 
 
 She mused again. 
 
 " Ah ! I see," she pursued presently, " that is 
 the question which most old maids are puzzled to 
 solve : other people solve it for them by saying, 
 ^ Your place is to do good to others, to be helpful 
 whenever lielp is wanted.' That is right in some 
 measure, and a very convenient doctrine for the 
 people who hold it; but, I perceive, that certain 
 sets of human beings are very apt to maintain that 
 other sets should give up their lives to them and 
 their service, and then they requite them by praise : 
 they call them devoted and virtuous. Is this 
 enough ? Is it to live ? Is tliere not a terrible
 
 OLD MAIDS. 255 
 
 liollowness, mockery, want, craving, in tliat existence 
 which is given away to others, for want of some- 
 thing of your own to bestow it on ? I suspect there 
 is. Does virtue lie in abnegation of self? I do not 
 believe it. Undue humility makes tyranny ; weak 
 concession creates selfishness. The Romish religion 
 especially teaches renunciation of self, submission to 
 others, and noAvhere are found so many grasping 
 tyrants as in the ranks of the Romish priesthood. 
 Each human being has his share of rights. I sus- 
 pect it would conduce to the happiness and welfare 
 of all, if each knew his allotment, and held to it 
 as tenaciously as the martyr to his creed. Queer 
 thoughts these, that surge in my mind : are they 
 rio^ht thouo^hts ? I am not certain. 
 
 " Well, life is short at the best : seventy years, they 
 say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awak- 
 eth ; and every p'ath trod by human feet terminates in 
 one bourne — the grave : the little chink in the sur- 
 face of this great globe — the furrow where the 
 mighty husbandman with the scythe deposits the seed 
 he has shaken from the ripe stem ; and there it falls, 
 decays, and thence it springs again, when the world 
 has rolled round a few times more. So much for the 
 body : the soul meantime wings its long flight up- 
 ward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire 
 and glass, and gazing down through the burning 
 clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the Chris-
 
 256 SHIRLEY. 
 
 tian's triple Godhead: tlie Sovereign Father; the 
 Mediating Son ; the Creator Spiiit. Such words, at 
 least, have been chosen to express what is inexpres- 
 sible: to describe what baffles description. The 
 souFs real hereafter, who shall guess ? " 
 
 Her fire was decayed to its last cinder; Malone 
 had departed; and now the study-bell rang for 
 prayers. 
 
 The next day Caroline had to spend altogether 
 alone, her uncle being gone to dine with his friend 
 Dr. Boultby, vicar of AYhinbury. The whole time 
 she was talking inwardly in the same strain : looking 
 forwards, asking what she was to do with life. Fanny, 
 as she passed in and out of the room occasionally, 
 intent on housemaid errands, perceived that her young 
 mistress sat very still. She was always in the same 
 place, always bent industriously over a piece of work : 
 she did not lift her head to speak to Fanny, as her 
 custom was, and when the latter remarked that the 
 day was fine, and she ought to take a walk, she only 
 said—" It is cold." 
 
 " You are very diligent at that sewing. Miss Caro- 
 line," continued the girl, approaching her little table. 
 
 " I am tired of it, Fanny." 
 
 " Then why do you go on with it ? Put it down : 
 read, or do something to amuse you." 
 
 " It is solitai'y in this house, Fanny : don't you 
 think so?"
 
 OLD MAIDS. 257 
 
 "I don't find it so, Miss. Me and Eliza are com- 
 pany for one another ; but you are quite too still — 
 you slioidd visit more. Kow, be persuaded ; go up 
 stairs and dress yourself smart, and go and take tea, 
 in a friendly way, with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley : 
 I am certain either of those ladies would be delio-hted 
 to see you." 
 
 " But their houses are dismal : they are both old 
 maids. I am certain old maids are a very unhappy 
 race." 
 
 " !N"ot they, Miss : they can't be unhappy ; they 
 take such care of themselves. They are all 
 selfish." 
 
 " Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny : she is always 
 doing good. How devotedly kind she was to her 
 stepmother, as long as the old lady lived ; and now 
 when she is quite alone in tlie world, without brother 
 or sister, or any one to care for her, how charitable 
 she is to the poor, as far as her means permit. Still 
 nobody thinks much of her, or has pleasure in going 
 to see her : and how gentlemen always sneer at 
 her!" 
 
 " They should n't, ]Miss ; I believe she is a good 
 woman : but gentlemen think only of ladies' 
 looks." 
 
 " I '11 go and see her," exclaimed Caroline, start- 
 ing up : " and if slie asks me to stay to tea, I '11 
 
 VOL. L S
 
 258 SHIRLEY. 
 
 stay. How wrong it is to neglect people because 
 they are not pretty, and young, and merry ! And I 
 will certainly call to see Miss Mann, too : she may 
 not be amiable ; but what has made her unamiable ? 
 lYhat has life been to her ? " 
 
 Fanny helped Miss Helstone to put away her 
 work, and afterwards assisted her to dress. 
 
 *^ You '11 not be an old maid. Miss CaroHne," she 
 said, as she tied the sash of her brown-silk frock, 
 having previously smoothed her soft, full, and 
 shining cm'ls; "there are no signs of an old maid 
 about you." 
 
 CaroHne looked at the little mirror before her, 
 and she thous^ht there were some sisfns. She could 
 see that she was altered within the last month; 
 that the hues of her complexion were paler, her eyes 
 changed — a wan shade seemed to circle them, her 
 countenance w^as dejected : she was not, in short, so 
 pretty or so fresh as she used to be. She distantly 
 hinted this to Fanny, from whom she got no direct 
 answer, only a remark that people did vary in their 
 looks ; but that at her age a little falling away sig- 
 nified nothing, — she would soon come round again, 
 and be plumper and rosier than ever. Having given 
 this assurance, Fanny showed singular zeal in wrap- 
 ping her up in warm shawls and handkerchiefs, till 
 Caroline, nearly smothered with the weight, was 
 fain to resist further additions.
 
 OLD MAIDS. 259 
 
 She paid her visits : first to Miss ^Mann, for this 
 was the most difficult point: Miss Mann was cer- 
 tainly not quite a loveable person. Till now, Caro- 
 line had always unhesitatingly declared she disliked 
 her, and more than once she had joined her cousin 
 Kobert in laughing at some of her peculiarities. 
 Moore was not habitually given to sarcasm, especially 
 on anything humbler or weaker than himself; but 
 he had once or twice happened to be in the room 
 when Miss Mann had made a call on his sister, and 
 after hstening to her conversation and viewing her 
 features for a time, he had gone out into the garden 
 where his little cousin was tendino; some of his 
 favourite flowers, and while standing near and 
 watching her, he had amused himself with comparing 
 fair youth — dehcate and attractive — with shrivelled 
 eld, livid and loveless, and in jestingly repeating to 
 a smihng: ml the vine2:ar discourse of a cankered old 
 maid. Once on such an occasion, Carohne had said 
 to him, looking up from the luxuriant creeper she 
 was binding to its frame, — 
 
 ^^ Ah ! Robert, you do not like old maids. I, too, 
 should come under the lash of your sarcasm, if I 
 were an old maid." 
 
 " You an old maid ! " he had rephed. " A piquant 
 notion suggested by lips of that tint and form. I 
 can fancy you, though, at forty, quietly dressed, 
 pale and sunk, but still with that straight nose, 
 
 s 2
 
 260 sniRLEY. 
 
 white forehead, and those soft eyes. I suppose, too, 
 you will keep your voice, which has another " tim- 
 bre" than that hard, deep organ of Miss Mann's. 
 Courage, Gary! — even at fifty you will not be 
 repulsive." 
 
 "Miss Mann did not make herself, or time her 
 voice, Robert." 
 
 "Nature made her in the mood in which she 
 makes her briars and thorns; whereas for the 
 creation of some women, she reserves the May 
 morning hours when with light and dew she wooes 
 tlie primrose from the turf, and the hly from the 
 wood-moss." 
 
 Ushered into Miss JMann's Httle parlour, Caroline 
 found her as she always found her, surrounded by 
 perfect neatness, cleanliness, and comfort ; (after all, 
 is it not a virtue in old maids that soUtude rarely 
 makes them negligent or disorderly ?) no dust on her 
 polished furniture, none on her carpet, fresh flowers 
 in tlie vase on her table, a bright fire in the grate. 
 She herself sat primly and somewhat grimly-tidy in 
 a cushioned rocking-chair, her hands busied with 
 some knitting : tliis was her favom*ite work, as it 
 required the least exertion. She scarcely rose as 
 Caroline entered; to avoid excitement was one of 
 Miss IMann's aims in life : she had been composing
 
 OLD MAIDS. 261 
 
 herself ever since slie came down in the morning, 
 and had just attained a certain lethargic state of tran- 
 quillity when the visitor's knock at the door startled 
 her, and undid her day's work. She Avas scarcely 
 pleased, therefore, to see x.Iiss Helstone : she re- 
 ceived her with reserve, bade her be seated, with 
 austerity, and when she had got her placed opposite^ 
 she fixed her with her eye. 
 
 This was no ordinary doom — to be fixed vvdth 
 INIiss Mann's eye. Robert ]Moore had undergone 
 it once, and had never forgotten the circumstance. 
 
 He considered it quite equal to anything Medusa 
 could do : he professed to doubt whether, since that 
 infliction, his flesh had been quite what it was before, 
 — whether there was not something stony in its 
 texture. The gaze had had such an effect on him as 
 to drive him promptly from the apartment and 
 house ; it had even sent him straightway up to the 
 Hectory, where he had appeared in Carohne's pre- 
 sence with a very queer face, and amazed her by 
 demanding a cousinly salute on the spot, to rectify 
 a damage that had been done liim. 
 
 Certainly INIiss Mann had a formidable eye for 
 one of the softer sex : it was prominent, and showed 
 a great deal of the white, and looked as steadily, as 
 unwinkingly, at you as if it were a steel ball soldered 
 in her head ; and when, while looking, she began to 
 talk in an indescribably dry monotonous tone — a
 
 262 sniKLEY. 
 
 tone without vibration or inflection — you felt as if a 
 graven image of some bad spirit were addressing 
 you. But it was all a figment of fancy, a matter of 
 surface. Miss Mann's goblin-grimness scarcely went 
 deeper than the angel-sweetness of hundreds of 
 beauties. She was a perfectly honest, conscientious 
 woman, who had performed duties in her day from 
 whose severe anguish many a human Peri, gazelle- 
 eyed, silken-tressed, and silver-tongued, would have 
 shrunk appalled : she had passed alone through pro- 
 tracted scenes of suffering, exercised rigid self-denial, 
 made large sacrifices of time, money, health for those 
 who had repaid her only by ingratitude, and now 
 her main — almost her sole — fault was, that she was 
 censorious. 
 
 Censorious she certainly was. Caroline had not 
 sat Ave minutes, ere her' hostess, still keeping her 
 under the spell of that dread and Gorgon gaze, 
 began flaying alive certain of the families in the 
 neighbourhood. She went to work at this business 
 in a singularly cool, deliberate manner, like some 
 surgeon practising with his scalpel on a lifeless sub- 
 ject : she made few distinctions ; she allowed scarcely 
 any one to be good ; she dissected impartially almost 
 all her acquaintance. If her auditress ventured now 
 and then to put in a palliative word, she set it aside 
 with a certain disdain. Still, though thus pitiless in 
 moral anatomy, she was no scandal-monger : she
 
 OLD 3IAIDS. 263 
 
 never disseminated really malignant or dangerous 
 reports : it was not lier heart so much as her temper 
 that was wroncr. 
 
 Caroline made this discovery for the first time to- 
 day; and, moved thereby to regTet divers mijust 
 judgments she had more than once passed on the 
 crabbed old maid, she began to talk to her softly, not 
 in sympathizing words, but with a sympathizing 
 voice. The loneliness of her condition struck her 
 visitor in a new light ; as did also the character of her 
 ugliness: a bloodless pallor of complexion, and deeply 
 worn lines of feature. The gh'l pitied the sohtary 
 and afflicted woman ; her looks told what she felt : a 
 sweet countenance is never so sweet as when the 
 moved heart animates it with compassionate tender- 
 ness. jVIiss Mann, seeing such a countenance raised 
 to her, was touched in her turn : she acknowledged 
 her sense of the interest thus unexpectedly shown in 
 her, who usually met with only coldness and ridicule, 
 by replying to her candidly. Communicative on her 
 own affairs she usually was not, because no one cared 
 to listen to her ; but to-day she became so, and her 
 confidant shed tears as she heard her speak: for 
 she told of cruel, slow-wasting, obstinate sufferings. 
 Well might she be corpse-like ; well might she look 
 grim, and never smile ; well might she wish to avoid 
 excitement, to gain and retain composure I CaroHne, 
 when she knew all, acknowledged that iSIiss Mann
 
 264 SHIRLEY. 
 
 was rather to be admired for fortitude than blamed 
 for moroseness. Reader ! when you behold an aspect 
 for whose constant gloom and frown you cannot 
 account, whose unvarying cloud exasperates you by 
 its apparent causelessness, be sure that there is a 
 canker somewhere, and a canker not the less deeply 
 corroding because concealed. 
 
 ]\Iiss INIann felt that she was understood partly, and 
 wished to be understood further ; for however old, 
 plain, humble, desolate, afflicted we may be, so long 
 as our hearts preserve the feeblest spark of life, they 
 preserve also, shivering near that pale ember, a 
 starved, ghostly longing for appreciation and affection. 
 To this extenuated spectre, perhaps, a crumb is not 
 tlirown once a year ; but when ahungered and athirst 
 to famine — when all humanity has forgotten the 
 dying tenant of a decaying house — Divine jNIercy 
 remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna falls 
 for lips that eartlily nutriment is to pass no more. 
 !Biblical promises, heard first in health, but then un- 
 heeded, come whispering to the couch of sickness : it 
 is felt that a pitying God watches Avhat all mankind 
 have forsaken; the tender compassion of Jesus is 
 recalled and relied on : the faded eye, gazing 
 ■beyond Time, sees a Home, a Friend, a Refuge in 
 Eternity. 
 
 Miss J\lann, drawn on by the still attention of her 
 listener, proceeded to allude to circumstances in her
 
 OLD MAIDS. 265 
 
 past life. She spoke like one who tells the truth — 
 simply^ and with a certain reserve: she did not 
 boast, nor did she exaggerate. Caroline found that 
 the old maid had been a most devoted daughter and 
 sister, an unwearied watcher by lingering deathbeds ; 
 that to prolonged and unrelaxing attendance on the 
 sick, the malady that now poisoned her ov^n life 
 owed its origin; that to one wretched relative she 
 had been a support and succour in the depths of 
 self-earned degradation, and that it was still her 
 hand which kept him from utter destitution. ]\Iiss 
 Helstone stayed the whole evening, omitting to pay 
 her other intended visit; and when she left jMiss 
 Mann, it was with the determination to try in future 
 to excuse her faidts, never a^'ain to make lio'lit of her 
 pecuharities or to laugh at her plainness ; and, above 
 all things, not to neglect her, but to come once 
 a- week, and to offer her, from one human heart at 
 least, the homage of affection and respect : she felt 
 she could now sincerely give her a small tribute of 
 each feehng. 
 
 Carohne, on her return, told Fanny she was very 
 glad she had gone out, as she felt much better for 
 the visit. The next day she failed not to seek Miss 
 Ainley. This lady was in narrower circumstances 
 than Miss Mann, and her dwcUing was more humble : 
 it was, however, if possible, yet more exquisitely 
 clean; though the decayed gentlewoman could not
 
 266 SHIKLEY. 
 
 afford to keep a servant, but waited on herself, and 
 had only the occasional assistance of a little gu'l who 
 lived in a cottage near. 
 
 Not only was Miss Ainley poorer, but she was even 
 plainer than the other old maid. In her first youth 
 she must have been ugly ; now, at the age of fifty, 
 she was very ugly. At first sight, all but peculiarly 
 well-disciplined minds were apt to turn from her with 
 annoyance; to conceive against her a prejudice, 
 simply on the ground of her unattractive look. Then 
 she was prim in dress and manner : she looked, spoke, 
 and moved the complete old maid. 
 
 Her welcome to Caroline was formal, even in its 
 kindness — for it was kind ; but Miss Helstone excused 
 this. She knew something of the benevolence of the 
 heart which beat under that starched kerchief; all 
 the neighboiu'hood — at least all the female neigh- 
 bourhood — ^knew something of it : no one spoke 
 against INIiss Ainley except lively young gentle- 
 men, and inconsiderate old ones, who declared her 
 hideous. 
 
 Caroline "^as soon at home in that tiny parlom'; a 
 kind hand took from her her shawl and bonnet, and 
 installed her in the most comfortable seat near the 
 fire. The young and the antiquated woman were pre- 
 sently deep in kindly conversation, and soon Caroline 
 became aware of the power a most serene, unselfish, 
 and benignant mind could exercise over those to
 
 OLD IVIAIDS. 267 
 
 whom it was developed. She talked never of herself — 
 always of others. Their faults she passed over ; her 
 theme was their wants, which she sought to supply ; 
 their sufferings, which she longed to alleviate. She 
 was religious — a professor of religion — what some 
 would call " a saint," and she referred to religion often 
 in sanctioned phi-ase — in phrase which those who pos- 
 sess a perception of the ridiculous, without owning 
 the power of exactly testing and truly judging cha- 
 racter, would certainly have esteemed a proper subject 
 for satire : a matter for mimicry and laughter. They 
 would have been hugely mistaken for then pains. 
 Sincerity is never ludicrous ; it is always respectable. 
 "Whether truth — ^be it religious or moral truth — speak 
 eloquently and in well-chosen language or not, its 
 voice should be heard with reverence. Let those 
 who cannot nicely, and Avith certainty, discern the 
 difference between the tones of hypocrisy and those 
 of sincerity, never presume to laugh at all, lest they 
 should have the miserable misfortune to laugh in the 
 wrong place, and commit impiety when they thirds 
 they are achieving wit. 
 
 Kot from !Mis3 Ainley's own lips did Caroline hear 
 of her good works ; but she knew much of them 
 nevertheless : her beneficence was the familiar topic 
 of the poor in Briarfield. They were not works of 
 almsgiving : the old maid was too poor to give much, 
 though she straitened herself to privation that she
 
 268 SHIRLEY. 
 
 might contribute her mite when needful : they were 
 the works of a Sister of Charity, far more difficult to 
 perform than those of a Lady Bountiful. She would 
 watch by any sickbed : she seemed to fear no 
 disease ; she would nurse the poorest whom none 
 else would nurse : she was serene, humble, kind, and 
 equable through everything. 
 
 For this goodness she got but little reward in this 
 life. Many of the poor became so accustomed to her 
 services that they hardly thanked her for them : the 
 rich heard them mentioned with wonder, but were 
 silent, from a sense of shame at the difference 
 between her sacrifices and their own. Many ladies, 
 however, respected her deeply : they could not help 
 it ; one gentleman — one only — gave her his friend- 
 ship and perfect confidence : this was Mr. Hall, the 
 vicar of Xunnely. He said, and said truly, that her 
 life came nearer the life of Christ, than that of any 
 other human being he had ever met with. You 
 must not think, reader, that in sketching Miss 
 Ainley's character, I depict a figment of imagination 
 — no — we seek the originals of such portraits in real 
 life only. 
 
 IMiss Helstone studied well the mind and heart 
 now revealed to her. She found no high intellect to 
 admire : the old maid was merely sensible ; but she 
 discovered so much goodness, so much usefulness, so 
 much mildness, patience, truth, that she bent her
 
 OLD MAIDS. 269 
 
 own mind before Miss Ainley's in reverence. What 
 was her love of nature, what was her sense of 
 beauty, what were her more varied and fervent 
 emotions, what was her deeper power of thought, 
 what her wider capacity to comprehend, compared 
 to the practical excellence of this good woman? 
 Momently, they seemed only beautiful forms of 
 selfish delight; mentally, she trod them under 
 foot. 
 
 It is true, she still felt with pain that the hfe 
 wliicli made Miss Ainley happy could not make her 
 happy : pure and active as it was, in her heart she 
 deemed it deeply dreary because it was so loveless — 
 to her ideas, so forlorn. Yet, doubtless, she re- 
 flected, it needed only habit to make it practicable 
 and agreeable to any one : it was despicable, she felt, 
 to pine sentimentally, to cherish secret griefs, vain 
 memories; to be inert, to waste youth in aching 
 lano^uor, to grow old doins* nothinoj. 
 
 " I will bestir myself,*' was her resolution, " and 
 try to be wise if I cannot be good." 
 
 She proceeded to make inquuy of Miss Ainley, 
 if she could help her in any tiling. Miss Ainley, 
 glad of an assistant, told her that she could, and 
 indicated some poor famiHes in Briarfield that 
 it was desirable she should visit ; giving her like- 
 wise, at her further request, some work to do
 
 270 SHIRLEY. 
 
 for certain poor women wlio liad many cliildren, 
 and who were unskilled in using the needle for 
 themselves. 
 
 Caroline went home^ laid her plans, and took a 
 resolve not to swerve from them. She allotted a 
 ' certain portion of her time for her various studies, 
 and a certain portion for doing anytliing JVliss 
 Ainley might direct her to do ; the remainder was to 
 be spent in exercise : not a moment was to be left 
 for the indulgence of such fevered thoughts as had 
 poisoned last Sunday evening. 
 
 To do her justice she executed her plans con- 
 scientiously, perseveringly. It was very hard work 
 at first — it was even hard work to the end, but 
 it helped her to stem and keep down anguish: 
 it forced her to be employed ; it forbade her to 
 brood; and gleams of satisfaction chequered her 
 gray life here and there when she found she 
 had done good, imparted pleasm-e, or allayed suf- 
 ferin2^. 
 
 Yet I must speak truth ; these efforts brought her 
 neither health of body nor continued peace of mind : 
 with them all, she wasted, grew more joyless and 
 more wan ; with them all, her memory kept harping 
 on the name of Robert ]Moore : an elegy over the 
 past still rung constantly in her ear; a funereal 
 inward cry haunted and harassed her : the heaviness
 
 OLD MAIDS. 271 
 
 of a broken spirit, and of pining and palsying facul- 
 tiess, ettled slow on her buoyant youth. Winter 
 seemed conquering her spring : the mind's soil and 
 its treastffes were freezing gradually to barren stag- 
 nation.
 
 272 SHIRLEY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FIELDHEAD. 
 
 Yet Caroline refused tamely to succumb : she had 
 native strength in her girl's heart, and she used it. 
 Men and Avomen never struggle so hard as when 
 they struggle alone, without witness, counsellor, or 
 confidant ; unencouraged, unadvised, and unpitied. 
 
 Miss Helstone was in this position. Her suffer- 
 ings were her only spur; and being very real and 
 sharp, they roused her spmt keenly. Bent on vic- 
 tory over a mortal pain, she did her best to quell it. 
 Never had she been seen so busy, so studious, and, 
 above all, so active. She took walks in all weathers 
 — ^long walks in solitary directions. Day by day she 
 came back in the evening, pale and wearied-looking, 
 yet seemingly not fatigued ; for stiU, as soon as she 
 had thrown off her bonnet and shawl, she would, 
 instead of resting, begin to pace her apartment : 
 sometimes slie would not sit down till she was
 
 FIELDHEAD. 273 
 
 literally faint. She said she did tliis to tire herself 
 well, that she might sleep soundly at night. But if 
 that was her aim it was unattained, for at night, 
 when others slumbered, she was tossing on her 
 pillow, or sitting at the foot of her couch in the 
 darkness, forgetful apparently of the necessity of seek- 
 ing repose. Often, unhappy girl ! she was crying — 
 crying in a sort of intolerable despair ; which, when it 
 rushed over her, smote down her strength, and 
 reduced her to childlike helplessness. 
 
 ^Yhen thus prostrate, temptations besieged her : 
 weak suggestions whispered in her weary heart to 
 write to Robert, and say that she was unhappy 
 because she was forbidden to see him and Hortense, 
 and that she feared he would withdraw his friendship 
 (not love) from her, and forget her entirely, and 
 befrsfino; him to remember her and, sometimes, to 
 write to her. One or tvv^o such letters she actually 
 indited, but she never sent them: shame and good 
 sense forbade. 
 
 At last the life she led reached the point when it 
 seemed she could bear it no longer ; that she must 
 seek and find a change somehow, or her heart and 
 head would fail under the pressm'c Avhich strained 
 them. She longed to leave Briarfield, to go to some 
 very distant place. She longed for something else : 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 SHIRLEY. 
 
 the deep, secret, Jinxious yearning to discover and 
 know her motlier strengthened daily ; but with the 
 desire was coupled a doubt, a dread — if she knew 
 her, could she love her ? There was cause for hesi- 
 tation, for apprehension on this point : never in her 
 life had she heard that mother praised : whoever 
 mentioned her, mentioned her coolly. Her uncle 
 seemed to regard his sister-in-law with a sort of tacit 
 antipathy ; an old servant, who had lived with Mrs. 
 James Helstone for a short time after her marriage, 
 whenever she referred to her former mistress, spoke 
 with cliilling reserve: sometimes she called her 
 ^' queer," sometimes she said she did not understand 
 her. These expressions were ice to the daughter's 
 heart ; they suggested the conclusion that it was per- 
 haps better never to know her parent, than to know 
 her and not Hke her. 
 
 But one project could she frame whose execution 
 seemed hkely to bring her a hope of relief; it vras to 
 take a situation, to be a governess — she could do 
 nothino; else. A little incident brou2:ht her to the 
 2)oint, when she found courage to break her design 
 to her uncle. 
 
 Her long and late walks lay always, as has been 
 said, on lonely roads ; but in whatever direction she 
 had rambled, whether aloncr the drear skirts of
 
 FIELDHEAD. 275 
 
 Stilbro' Moor^ or over tlie sunny stretch of Xunnely 
 Common, her home^Yarcl path was still so contrived 
 as to lead her near the Hollow. She rarely descended 
 the den, but she visited its brink at twilight almost 
 as regularly as the stars rose over the hill-crests. 
 Her resting-place was at a certain stile under a cer- 
 tain old thorn : thence she could look dov\'n on the 
 cottage, the mill, the dewy garden-ground, the still, 
 deep dam ; thence was visible the well-known count- 
 ing-house window, from whose panes at a fixed hoiu' 
 shot, suddenly bright, the ray of the well-known 
 lamp. Her errand was to watch for tliis ray: her 
 reward to catch it, sometimes sparkhng bright in 
 clear au*, sometimes sliimmering dim through mist, 
 and anon flashing broken between slant hues of rain 
 — ^for she came in all weathers. 
 
 There were nights when it failed to appear : she 
 knew then that Robert was from home, and went 
 away doubly sad ; whereas its kindhng rendered her 
 elate, as though she saw in it the promise of some 
 indefinite hope. If, wliile she gazed, a shadow bent 
 between the light and lattice, her heart leaped — that 
 echpse was Robert : she had seen him. She would 
 return home comforted, carrying in her mind a 
 clearer vision of his aspect, a distincter recollection 
 of his voice, his smile, his bearing ; and, blent with 
 
 T 2
 
 276 SHIRLEY. 
 
 these impressions, was often a sweet persuasion that, 
 if she could get near him, his heart might welcome 
 her presence yet : that at this moment he might be 
 williniT to extend his hand and draw her to him, and 
 shelter her at his side as he used to do. That night, 
 though she might weep as usual, she would fancy 
 her tears less scalding; the pillow they watered 
 seemed a little softer; the temples pressed to that 
 pillow ached less. 
 
 The shortest path from the Hollow to the Rectory 
 wound near a certain mansion, the same under whose 
 lone walls Malone passed on that night-journey men- 
 tioned in an early chapter of this work — the old and 
 tenantless dwelling yclept Fieldhead. Tenantless by 
 the proprietor it had been for ten years, but it was 
 no ruin : i\Ir. Yorke had seen it kept in good repair, 
 and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it, 
 cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in 
 habitable condition. 
 
 If Fieldhead had few other merits as a building, 
 it might at least be termed picturesque : its irre- 
 gular architecture, and the gray and mossy colouring 
 communicated by time, gave it a just claim to this 
 epithet. The old latticed windows, the stone porch, 
 the walls, the roof, the chimney-stacks, were rich in 
 crayon touches and sepia lights and shades. The
 
 FIELDHEAD. 277 
 
 trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading ; the 
 cedar on the lawn in front was grand, and the 
 granite urns on the garden wall, the fretted arch of 
 the gateway, were, for an artist, as the very desire 
 of the eye. 
 
 One mild May evening, Caroline passing near 
 about moon-rise, and feeHng, though weary, un- 
 wiUing yet to go home, where there was only the 
 bed of thorns and the night of grief to anticipate, 
 sat down on the mossy ground near the gate, and 
 gazed through towards cedar and mansion. It was 
 a still night — calm, dewy, cloudless : the gables, 
 turned to the west, reflected the clear amber of the 
 horizon they faced ; the oaks behind were black ; 
 the cedar was blacker ; under its dense, raven 
 boughs a glimpse of sky opened gravely blue : it 
 was full of the moon, which looked solemnly and 
 mildly down on CaroHne from beneath that sombre 
 canopy. 
 
 She felt this night and prospect mournfully lovely. 
 She wished she could be happy : she wished she 
 could know inward peace : she wondered Providence 
 had no pity on her, and would not help or console 
 her. KecoUections of happy trystes of lovers, com- 
 memorated in old ballads, returned on her mind : she 
 thought such tryste in such scene would be blissful.
 
 278 SHIKLEY. 
 
 AYberc now was Eobert ? she asked : not at the 
 Hollow : she had watched for his lamp long, and had 
 not seen it. She questioned within herself whether 
 she and Moore were ever destined to meet and speak 
 again. Suddenly the door within the stone porch of 
 the Hall opened, and two men came out ; one elderly 
 and wliite-headed, the other young, dark-haired, and 
 tall. They passed across the lawn, out through a 
 portal in the garden wall : Caroline saw them cross 
 the road, pass the stile, descend the fields ; she saw 
 them disappear. Eobert jMoore had passed before 
 her with his friend Mr. Yorke : neither had seen 
 her. 
 
 The apparition had been transient — scarce seen 
 ere gone; but its electric passage left her veins 
 kindled, her soul insurgent. It found her despairing : 
 it left her desperate — two different states. 
 
 " Oh ! had he but been alone ! Had he but seen 
 me ! " was her cry, " he would have said somethmg : 
 he would have given me his hand. He does, he must 
 love me a little : he would have shown some token 
 of affection : in liis eye, on his lips, I should have 
 read comfort : but the chance is lost. The wind — 
 the cloud's shadow does not pass more silently, more 
 emptily than he. I have been mocked, and Heaven 
 is cruel ! "
 
 FIELDHEAD. 279 
 
 Thus, in the utter sickness of longing and disap- 
 pointment, she went home. 
 
 The next morning at breakfast, where she ap- 
 peared, white-cheeked and miserable-looking as one 
 who had seen a ghost, she inquired of Mr. Hel- 
 stone, — 
 
 " Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiring 
 for a situation in a family ? " 
 
 Her uncle, ignorant as the table supporting his 
 coffee-cup of all his niece had undergone and was 
 undergoing, scarcely believed his ears. 
 
 "Wliat whim now?" he asked. "Are you be- 
 witched ? What can you mean ?" 
 
 " I am not well, and need a change," she 
 said. 
 
 He examined her. He discovered she had 
 experienced a change, at any rate. Without his 
 being aware of it, the rose had dwindled and 
 faded to a mere snowdrop : bloom had vanished, 
 flesh wasted ; she sat before him drooping, colour- 
 less, and thin. But for the soft expression of her 
 brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and 
 the flowing abundance of her hair, she would no 
 longer have possessed a claim to the epithet — 
 pretty. 
 
 " What on earth is the matter with you ? '^
 
 280 SHIRLEY. 
 
 he asked. " "\Miat is ^vrong ? How are you 
 ailing?" 
 
 IN'o answer, only the brown eyes filled, the faintly- 
 tinted lips trembled. 
 
 '' Look out for a situation, indeed ! For what 
 situation are you fit ? "What have you been doing 
 with yourself ? You are not well." 
 
 " I should be well if I went from home." 
 
 " These women are incomprehensible. They have 
 the strangest knack of startHng you with unpleasant 
 surprises. To-day you see them bouncing, buxom, 
 red as cherries, and round as apples ; to-morrow they 
 exhibit themselves effete as dead weeds, blanched 
 and broken down. And the reason of it all ? 
 that's the puzzle. She has her meals, her Hberty, 
 a good house to live in, and good clothes to wear 
 as usual : a while since that sufficed to keep her 
 handsome and cheer}^, and there she sits now a poor 
 little pale, puling, chit enough. Provoking ! Then 
 comes the question, what is to be done ? I suppose 
 I must send for advice. Will you have a doctor, 
 chUd?" 
 
 " No, uncle ; I don't want one : a doctor could do 
 me no good. I merely want change of air and 
 scene." 
 
 " Well, if that be the caprice it shall be gratified.
 
 FIELDHEAD. 281 
 
 You shall go to a watering-place : I don't mind the 
 expense : Fanny shall accompany you." 
 
 ''^But, uncle^ some day I must do something for 
 myself: I have no fortune. I had better begin 
 now." 
 
 ^^AVhile I live, you shall not turn out as a 
 governess, Caroline. I will not have it said that 
 my niece is a governess." 
 
 " But the later in life one makes a change of that 
 sort, uncle, the more difficult and painful it is. I 
 should wish to get accustomed to the yoke before 
 any habits of ease and independence are formed." 
 
 *^ I beg you will not harass me, Caroline. I mean 
 to provide for you. I have always meant to provide 
 for you : I will purchase an annuity. Bless me ! I 
 am but fifty-five ; my health and constitution are 
 excellent : there is plenty of time to save and take 
 measures. Don't make yourself anxious respecting 
 the future : is that what frets you ? " 
 
 *' Ko, uncle ; but I long for a change." 
 
 He laughed. "There speaks the woman!" cried 
 he, '^ the very woman ! A change ! a change ! Al- 
 ways fantastical and whimsical! "\YcU, it's in her 
 sex." 
 
 " But it is not fantasy and whim, uncle." 
 
 "What is it then?"
 
 282 SHIRLEY. 
 
 *' Necessity, I think. I feel weaker than formerly. 
 I believe I should have more to do." 
 
 " Admirable ! She feels weak, and therefore she 
 should be set to hard labour — * clair comme le jour ' 
 — as Moore — confound Moore ! You shall go to 
 Cliff-bridge; and there are two guineas to buy a 
 new frock. Come, Cary, never fear ; we '11 find 
 balm in Gilead." 
 
 " Uncle, I wish you were less generous, and 
 
 "More what?" 
 
 Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but 
 it was not uttered : she checked herself in time : her 
 uncle would indeed have laughed if that namby- 
 pamby word had escaped her. Finding her silent, 
 he said, — 
 
 " The fact is, you don't know precisely what you 
 want." 
 
 " Only to be a governess." 
 
 " Pooh ! mere nonsense ! I '11 not hear of gover- 
 nessing. Don't mention it again. It is rather too 
 feminine a fancy. I have finished breakfast, ring 
 the bell : put all crotchets out of your head and run 
 away and amuse yourself." 
 
 "AYhat with? My doll?" asked Caroline to 
 herself as she quitted the room.
 
 FIELDHEAD* 283 
 
 A week or two passed; her bodily and mental 
 health neither grew worse nor better. She was 
 now precisely in that state, when, if her constitution 
 had contained the seeds of consumption, dechne or 
 slow fever, those diseases would have been rapidly 
 developed, and would soon have carried her quietly 
 from the world. People never die of love or grief 
 alone ; though some die of inherent maladies, wliich 
 the tortures of those passions prematurely force into 
 destructive action. The sound by nature undergo 
 these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered: 
 their beauty and bloom perish, but life remains un- 
 touched. They are brought to a certain point of 
 dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility, 
 and emaciation. People think, as they see them 
 gliding languidly about, that they will soon with- 
 draw to sickbeds, perish there, and cease from 
 among the healthy and happy. This does not 
 happen : they live on ; and though they cannot re- 
 gain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and 
 serenity. The blossom which the March wind nips, 
 but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a 
 withered apple on the tree late into autumn : having 
 braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the 
 first of winter. 
 
 Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's
 
 284 SHIRLEY. 
 
 appearance, and most people said she was going to 
 die. She never thought so herself: she felt in no 
 dying case ; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her 
 appetite was diminished; she knew the reason: it 
 was because she wept so much at night. Her 
 strength was lessened; she could account for it: 
 sleep was coy and hard to be won; dreams were 
 distressing and baleful. In the far future she still 
 seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of 
 misery should be got over, and when she should 
 once more be calm, though perhaps never again 
 happy. 
 
 IMeanwhile her uncle m-ged her to visit ; to comply 
 with the frequent invitations of their acquaintance : 
 this she evaded doing ; she could not be cheerful in 
 company : she felt she was observed there with 
 more curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were 
 always offering her their advice, recommending this 
 or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her in a 
 way she understood, and from which she shrank. 
 Their eyes said they knew she had been " dis- 
 appointed," as custom phrases it : by whom, they 
 were not certain. 
 
 Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard 
 as commonplace young gentlemen, — quite as worldly 
 and selfish. Those who suffer should always avoid
 
 FIELDHEAD. 285 
 
 them ; grief and calamity they despise : they seem to 
 regard them as the judgments of God on the lowly. 
 With them to " love" is merely to contrive a scheme 
 for achieving a good match: to be ^^disappointed" 
 is to have their scheme seen through and frustrated. 
 They think the feeKngs and projects of others on the 
 subject of love, similar to their own, and judge them 
 accordingly. 
 
 All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly 
 by observation: she regulated her conduct by her 
 knowledge, keeping her pale face and wasted figure 
 as much out of sight as she could. Living thus 
 in complete seclusion, she ceased to receive intel- 
 ligence of the little transactions of the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 One morning her uncle came into the parlour, 
 where she sat endeavouring to find some pleasure in 
 painting a little group of wild flowers, gathered imder 
 a hedge at the top of the Hollow fields, and said to 
 her in his abrupt manner : — 
 
 '^ Come, cliild, you are always stooping over 
 palette, or book, or sampler : leave that tinting work. 
 By-the-by, do you put your pencil to your lips when 
 you paint ? " 
 
 " Sometimes, uncle, when I forget. " 
 
 "Then it is that which is poisoning you. The
 
 286 SHIRLEY. 
 
 paints arc deleterious, child; there is white lead, 
 and red lead, and verdigris, and gamboge, and 
 twenty other poisons in those colour cakes. Lock 
 them up ! lock them up ! Get your bonnet on ; I 
 want you to make a call with me." 
 
 "W\i\\7jou, uncle?" 
 
 This question was asked in a tone of surprise. 
 She was not accustomed to make calls with her 
 uncle : she never rode or walked out w^ith him on 
 any occasion. 
 
 " Quick ! quick ! I am always busy, you know : 
 I have no time to lose." 
 
 She hurriedly gathered up her materials, asking, 
 meantime, where they were going. 
 
 " To Fieldhead." 
 
 " Fieldhead ! "What, to see old James Booth, the 
 gardener ? Is he ill ? " 
 
 "We are going to see Miss Shirley Keeldar?" 
 
 " Miss Keeldar ! Is she come to Yorkshu-e ? Is 
 she at Fieldhead?" 
 
 " She is. She has been there a week. I met her 
 at a party last night : — that party to which you 
 would not go. I was pleased with her: I choose 
 that you shall make her acquaintance : it will do 
 you good." 
 
 " She is now come of age, I suppose?"
 
 FIELDHEAD. 287 
 
 *^ She is come of age, and will reside for a time 
 on her property. I lectured her on the subject : I 
 showed her her duty : she is not intractable : she 
 is rather a fine girl ; she will teach you what it is to 
 have a sprightly spirit : nothing lackadaisical about 
 herr 
 
 "I don't think she will want to see me, or to 
 have me introduced to her. "\Miat good can I do 
 her ? How can I amuse her ? " 
 
 " Pshaw I Put your bonnet on." 
 
 " Is she proud, uncle?" 
 
 "Don't know. You hardly imagine she would 
 show her pride to me, I suppose ? A chit like that 
 would scarcely presume to give herself airs with 
 the Rector of her parish, however rich she might 
 be." 
 
 " No, — but how did she behave to other people?" 
 
 " Didn't observe. She holds her head high, and 
 probably can be saucy enough where she dare, — she 
 wouldn't be a woman otherwise. There, — awa}- now 
 for your bonnet at once I " 
 
 Xot naturally very confident, a failure of physical 
 strength and a depression of spirits had not tended 
 to increase Caroline's presence of mind and ease of 
 manner, or to give her additional courage to face 
 strangers, and she quailed, in spite of self-remon-
 
 288 SHIKLEY. 
 
 strance, as she and her uncle walked up the broad, 
 paved approach leading from the gateway of Field- 
 liead to its porch. She followed Mr. Helstone 
 reluctantly through that porch into the sombre old 
 vestibule beyond. , 
 
 Very sombre it was; long, vast, and dark: one 
 latticed window lit it but dimly ; the wide old 
 chimney contained now no fire, for the present warm 
 weather needed it not; it was filled instead with 
 willow-boughs. The gallery on liigh, opposite the 
 entrance, was seen but in outline, so shadowy 
 became this hall towards its ceiling ; carved stags' 
 heads, with real antlers, looked down grotesquely 
 from the walls. This was neither a grand nor a 
 comfortable house : within as without it was antique, 
 rambling, and incommodious. A property of a 
 thousand a year belonged to it ; which property had 
 descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female. There 
 were mercantile families in the district boasting twice 
 the income, but the Keeldars, by virtue of their 
 antiquity, and their distinction of lords of the manor, 
 took the precedence of all. 
 
 Mr. and Miss Helstone were ushered into a par- 
 lour: of course, as was to be expected in such a 
 gothic old barrack, this parlom* was lined with oak : 
 fine, dark, glossy panels compassed the walls gloomily
 
 FIELDHEAD. 289 
 
 and grandly. Yery handsome, reader, these shining, 
 brown panels are : very mellow in colouring and 
 tasteful in effect, but — if you know what a " Spring- 
 clean" is — very execrable and inhuman. Whoever, 
 having the bowels of humanity, has seen servants 
 scrubbing at these polished wooden walls with bees^ 
 waxed cloths on a warm jMay day, must allow that 
 they are "tolerable and not to be endured;" and 
 I cannot but secretly applaud the benevolent barba- 
 rian who had painted another and larger apartment 
 of Fieldhead — the drawing-room to-wit, formerly 
 also an oak-room — of a delicate pinky white; 
 thereby earning for himself the character of a Hun, 
 but mightily enhancing the cheerfulness of that por- 
 tion of his abode, and saving futiu'c housemaids a 
 world of toil. 
 
 The brown-panelled parlour was furnished all in 
 old style, and with real old furniture. On each side 
 of the high mantelpiece stood two antique chairs of 
 oak, solid as sylvan thrones, and in one of these sat 
 a lad}'. But if tliis were Miss Keeldar, she must 
 have come of age at least some twenty years ago : 
 she was of matronly form, and though she wore no 
 cap, and possessed hair of quite an undimmed auburn, 
 shading small and naturally young-looking features, 
 she had no youthful aspect, nor apparently the wish to 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 SHIRLEY. 
 
 assume it. You could have wished lier attire of a 
 newer fashion : in a well-cut, well-made gown, hers 
 •would have been no uncomely presence. It puzzled 
 you to guess why a garment of handsome materials 
 should be arranged in such scanty folds, and devised 
 after such an obsolete mode : you felt disposed to 
 set do^vn the wearer as somewhat eccentric at 
 once. 
 
 This lady received the visitors with a mixture of 
 ceremony and diffidence quite English: no middle- 
 as^ed matron who was not an Enorlishwoman could 
 evince precisely the same manner ; a manner so un- 
 certain of herself, of her own merits, of her power to 
 please; and yet so anxious to be proper, and, if 
 possible, rather agreeable than otherwise. In the 
 present instance, however, more embarrassment was 
 shewn than is usual even with diffident English- 
 women: Miss Helstone felt this, sympathized with 
 the stranger, and, knowing by experience what was 
 good for the timid, took a seat quietly near her, and 
 began to talk to her with a gentle ease, communicated 
 for the moment by the presence of one less self- 
 possessed than herself. 
 
 She and this lady would, if alone, have at once 
 got on extremely well together. The lady had the 
 clearest voice imaginable : infinitely softer and more
 
 FIELDHEAD. 291 
 
 tuneful than could have been reasonably expected 
 from forty years, and a form decidedly inclined to 
 embonpoint. This voice Caroline liked ; it atoned 
 for the formal, if correct, accent and language : the 
 lady would soon have discovered she liked it and her, 
 and in ten minutes they would have been friends. 
 But Mr. Helstone stood on the rug looking at them 
 both; looking especially at the strange lady with 
 his sarcastic, keen eye, that clearly expresssed im- 
 patience of her chilly ceremony, and annoyance at 
 her want of aplomb. His hard gaze and rasping 
 voice discomfited the lady more and more; she 
 tried, however, to get up little speeches about the 
 weather, the aspect of the country, &c., but the im- 
 practicable Mr. Helstone presently found himself 
 somewhat deaf: whatever she said, he affected not to 
 hear distinctly, and she was obliged to go over each 
 elaborately constructed nothing twice. The effort 
 soon became too much for her ; she was just rising in 
 a perplexed flutter, nervously murmuring that she 
 knew not what detained Miss Keeldar — that she 
 would go and look for her, when Miss Keeldar saved 
 her the trouble by appearing : it was to be pre- 
 sumed at least that she wl.o now came in through a 
 glass-door from the garden owned that name. 
 
 There is real grace in ease of manner, and so old 
 
 u 2
 
 292 SHIRLEY. 
 
 Helstonc felt when an erect, sliglit girl walked up 
 to him, retaining with her left hand her little silk 
 apron full of flowers, and, giving him her right 
 hand, said pleasantly : — 
 
 " I knew you would come to see me, though you 
 do think Mr. Yorkc has made me a Jacobin. Good- 
 morniniT." 
 
 o 
 
 ^^But we'll not have you a Jacobin," returned 
 he. " Xo, Miss Shirley, they shall not steal the 
 flower of my parish from me : now that you arc 
 amongst us, you shall be my pupil in politics and 
 religion : I'll teach you sound doctrine on both 
 points." 
 
 " Mrs. Pryor has anticipated you," she replied, 
 turning to the elder lady. " Mrs. Pryor, you know, 
 was my governess, and is still my friend ; and of 
 all the high and rigid Tories, she is queen ; of all the 
 stanch churchwomen, she is chief. I have been 
 well drilled both in theology and history, I assure 
 you, Mr. Helstone." 
 
 The Rector immediately bowed very low to Mrs. 
 Pryor, and expressed himself obliged to her. 
 
 The ex-governess disclaimed skill either in poli- 
 tical or religious controversy, explained that she 
 thought such matters little adapted for female 
 minds, but avowed herself in general terms tlie
 
 FIELDHEAD. 293 
 
 advocate of order and lojalty, and, of course, truly 
 attached to the EstabUshment. She added, she was 
 ever averse to change under any cii'cumstances ; and 
 something scarcely audible about the extreme dan- 
 ger of being too ready to take up new ideas, closed 
 her sentence. 
 
 " ]\Iiss Keeldar tliinks as you think, I hope^ 
 madam."' 
 
 " Difference of age and difference of temperament 
 occasion difference of sentiment,"' was the reply. 
 " It can scarcely be expected that the eager and 
 young should hold the opinions of the cool and 
 middle-aged." 
 
 " Oh I oh I we are independent : we think for 
 ourselves!" cried Mr. Helstone. '*AVeare a little 
 Jacobin, for anything I know : a little free-thinker, 
 in good earnest. Let us have a confession of faith 
 on the spot." 
 
 And he took the heiress's two hands — causing her 
 to let fall her whole cargo of flowers — and seated 
 her by liim on the sofa. 
 
 " ^^y y<^^ii' creed,"' he ordered. 
 
 "The Apostles' Creed?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 She said it like a child. 
 
 " Xow for St. Athanasius's : that's the test !"
 
 294 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " Let me c^ather up my flowers : here is Tartar 
 coming, he will tread upon them."' 
 
 Tartar was a rather large, strong, and fierce- 
 looking dog, very ugly, being of a breed between 
 mastiff and bull-dog, who at this moment entered 
 through the glass door, and posting directly to the 
 rug, snuffed the fresh flowers scattered there. He 
 seemed to scorn them as food ; but probably think- 
 ing their velvety petals might be convenient as 
 htter, he was turning round preparatory to deposit- 
 ing his tawny bulk upon them, when Miss Helstone 
 and Miss Kceldar simultaneously stooped to the 
 rescue. 
 
 " Thank you," said the heiress, as she again held 
 out her little apron for Caroline to heap the blos- 
 soms into it. " Is this your daughter, jMi*. Hel- 
 stone?" she asked. 
 
 " My niece, Caroline." 
 
 Miss Kecldar shook hands with her, and then 
 looked at her. Caroline also looked at her hostess. 
 
 Shirley Kceldar (she had no christian name but 
 Shirley : her parents, who had wished to have a 
 son, finding that, after eight years of marriage. 
 Providence had granted them only a daughter, be- 
 stowed on her the same masculine family cognomen 
 they would have bestowed on a boy, if with a boy
 
 FIELDHEAD. 295 
 
 they had been blessed) — Shh'ley Keeldar was no 
 ugly heiress: she \Yas agreeable to the eye. Her 
 height and shape were not unlike Miss Helstone's : 
 perhaps in stature she might have the advantage 
 by an inch or two ; she was gracefully made, and her 
 face, too, possessed a charm as well described by the 
 word grace as any other. It was pale naturally, 
 but intelligent, and of varied expression. She was 
 not a blonde, like CaroHne : clear and dark were 
 the characteristics of her aspect as to colour: her 
 face and brow were clear, her eyes of the darkest 
 gray : no green lights in them, — transparent, pure, 
 neutral gray ; and her hair of the darkest brown. 
 Her features were distinguished ; by which I do not 
 mean that they were high, bony, and Roman, being 
 indeed rather small and slightly marked than other- 
 wise, but only that they were, to use a few French 
 words, " fins, gracieux, spirituels : " mobile they were 
 and speaking; but their changes were not to be 
 understood, nor their language interpreted all at 
 once. She examined Carohne seriously, inclining 
 her head a little to one side, with a thoughtful 
 air. 
 
 " You see she is only a feeble chick," observed Mr. 
 Helstone. 
 
 " She looks young — younger than I. How old
 
 296 SHIRLEY. 
 
 are you ?" she inquired, in a manner that would have 
 been patronizing if it had not been extremely solemn 
 and simple. 
 
 " Eighteen years and six months." 
 
 " And I am twenty-one." 
 
 She said no more ; she had now placed her flowers 
 on the table, and was busied in arranging them. 
 
 " And St. Athanasius's creed ? " urged the Kector ; 
 *' you beheve it all — don't you?" 
 
 " I can't remember it quite all. I will give you a 
 nosegay, Mr. Plelstone, when I have given your 
 niece one." 
 
 She had selected a little bouquet of one brilliant, 
 and two or three delicate flowers, relieved by a spray 
 of dark verdure : she tied it with silk from her work- 
 box, and placed it on Caroline's lap; and then she 
 put her hands behind her, and stood, bending slightly 
 tow^ards her guest, still regarding her, in the attitude 
 and with something of the aspect of a grave but 
 gallant little cavalier. This temporary expression of 
 face was aided by the style in which she wore her 
 hair, parted on one temple and brushed in a glossy 
 sweep above the forehead, whence it fell in curls 
 that looked natural, so free Avere their wavy undula- 
 tions. 
 
 " Are you tired with your walk?" she inquired.
 
 FIELDHEAD. 297 
 
 *' No — not in the least ; it is but a short distance 
 — ^but a mile." 
 
 " You look pale. Is she always so pale ? " she 
 asked, turning to the Rector. 
 
 " She used to be as rosy as the reddest of your 
 flowers." 
 
 " Why is she altered ? What has made her pale ? 
 Has she been ill?" 
 
 '' She tells me she wants a chano-e." 
 
 *^ She ought to have one : you ought to give her 
 one : you should send her to the sea-coast." 
 
 " I will, ere summer is over. Meantime, I intend 
 her to make acquaintance with you, if you have no 
 objection." 
 
 " I am sure Mss Keeldar will have no objection," 
 here observed IVIrs. Pryor. " I think I may take 
 it upon me to say that Miss Helstone's frequent pre- 
 sence at Fieldhead will be esteemed a favour." 
 
 " You speak my sentiments precisely, ma'am," 
 said Shirley, " and I thank you for anticipating me. 
 Let me tell you," she continued, turning again to 
 Caroline, " that you also ought to thank my gover- 
 ness ; it is not every one she would welcome as she 
 has welcomed you : you are distinguished more than 
 you think. This morning, as soon as you are gone, 
 I shall ask Mrs. Pryor's opinion of you. I am apt to
 
 298 SHIELEY, 
 
 rely on her judgment of character, for hitherto I 
 have found it wondrous accurate. Akeadj I foresee 
 a favoui'able answer to my inquiries : do I not guess 
 rightly, Mrs. Pryor?" 
 
 " My dear — you said but now you would ask my 
 opinion when Miss Helstone was gone ; I am scarcely 
 likely to give it in her presence." 
 
 " Xo — and perhaps it will be long enough before 
 I obtain it. I am sometimes sadly tantahzed, Mr. 
 Helstone, by Mrs. Pryor's extreme caution : her 
 judgments ought to be correct when they come, for 
 they are often as tardy of dehvery as a lord-chan- 
 cellor's: on some people's characters I cannot get 
 her to pronounce sentence, entreat as I may." 
 
 Mrs. Pryor here smiled. 
 
 '^ Yes," said her pupil, " I know what that smile 
 means : you are thinking of my gentleman-tenant. 
 Do you know Mr. Moore of the Hollow ? " she asked 
 Mr. Helstone. 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! your tenant — so he is : you have seen 
 a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?" 
 
 " I have been obliged to see him : there was busi- 
 ness to transact. Business ! Eeally the word makes 
 me conscious I am indeed no longer a girl, but quite 
 a woman, and something more. I am an esquire : 
 Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to be my style and
 
 FIELDHEAD. 299 
 
 title. They gave me a man's name ; I iioid a man's 
 position : it is enough to inspii'e me with a touch of 
 manhood ; and when I see such people as that stately 
 Anglo-Belgian — that Gerard Moore before me, 
 gravely talking to me of business, really I feel quite 
 gentlemanlike. You must choose me for your 
 churchwarden^ Mr. Helstone, the next time you 
 elect new ones : they ought to make me a magistrate 
 and a captain of yeomanry : Tony Lumpkin's mother 
 was a colonel, and his aunt a justice of the peace — 
 why shouldn't I be?" 
 
 " With all my heart. If you choose to get up a 
 requisition on the subject, I promise to head the list 
 of signatures with my name. But you were speak- 
 ing of IMoore ? " 
 
 " Ah ! yes. I find it a little difficult to understand 
 Mr. Moore — to know what to think of him : whether 
 to like him or not. He seems a tenant of whom any 
 proprietor might be proud — and proud of him I am, 
 in that sense — but as a neighbour, what is he ? Again 
 and again I have entreated Mrs. Pr^or to say what 
 she thinks of him, but she still evades returning a 
 direct answer. I hope you will be less oracular, Mr. 
 Helstone, and pronounce at once : do you like him?'* 
 
 " Not at all, just now : his name is entirely blotted 
 from my good books."
 
 300 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " What is the matter ? What has he done ?" 
 
 '' ]\Iy uncle and he disagree on politics," intei'posed 
 the low voice of Caroline. She had better not have 
 spoken just tlien : having scarcely joined in the con- 
 versation before, it was not apropos to do it now : 
 she felt this, with nervous acuteness, as soon as she 
 had spoken, and coloured to the eyes. 
 
 " Wliat are Moore's politics ? " inquired Shirley. 
 
 ^' Those of a tradesman," returned the Kector; 
 " narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is 
 eternally writing and speaking against the continu- 
 ance of the war : I have no patience with him." 
 
 " The war hurts his trade. I remember he remarked 
 that only yesterday. But what other objection have 
 you to him?" 
 
 " That is enousrh." 
 
 " He looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term," 
 pursued Shirley, '^ and it pleases me to think he is 
 such." 
 
 Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant 
 flower in her bouquet, and answered, in distinct tones 
 — "Decidedly he is." Shirley, hearing tliis courage- 
 ous aflarmation, flashed an arch, searching glance at 
 the speaker from her deep, expressive eyes. 
 
 " You are his friend, at any rate," she said ; " you 
 defend him in his absence."
 
 FIELDHEAD. 30 1 
 
 " I am botli his friend and his relative/' was the 
 prompt rejjly. '- Kobert Moore is my cousin." 
 
 ** Oh, then, you can tell me all about him. Just 
 give me a sketch of his character." 
 
 Insuperable embarrassment seized Caroline when 
 this demand was made : she could not, and did not 
 attempt to comply with it. Her silence was im- 
 mediately covered by ]\Irs. Pryor, who proceeded to 
 address sundry questions to Mr. Helstone regarding 
 a family or two in the neighbourhood, with whose 
 connections in the south she said she was acquainted. 
 Shirley soon withdrevr lier gaze from Miss Helstone's 
 face. She did not renew her inteiTogations, but 
 returning to her flowers, proceeded to choose a nose- 
 gay for the Rector. She presented it to him as he 
 took leave, and received the homage of a salute on 
 the hand in return. 
 
 " Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she. 
 
 '•' Xext my heart, of course,'' responded Helstone, 
 " ^Irs. Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this 
 churchwarden in perspective, this captain of yeo- 
 manry, this young squire of Briarfield, in a word: 
 don't let him exert himself too much : don't let him 
 break his neck in hunting : especially, let him mind 
 how he rides down that dangerous hill near the 
 Hollow."
 
 302 SHIRLEY. 
 
 " I like a descent," said Shirley — " I like to clear 
 it rapidly ; and especially I like that romantic Hol- 
 low, with all my heart." 
 
 " Romantic — with a mill in it ? " 
 
 " Eomantic with a mill in it. The old mill and 
 the wJiite cottage are each admirable in its way." 
 
 " And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar ?" 
 
 "The counting-house is better than my bloom- 
 coloured di*awing-room : I adore the counting- 
 house." 
 
 " And the trade ? The cloth — the greasy wool — 
 the polluting dyeing-vats?" 
 
 " The trade is to be thoroughly respected." 
 
 " And the tradesman is a hero? Good !" 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so : I thought the 
 tradesman looked heroic." 
 
 Miscliief, spirit, and glee sparkled all over her fiice 
 as she thus bandied words with the old Cossack, who 
 almost equally enjoyed the tilt. 
 
 ** Captain Keeldar, you have no mercantile blood 
 in your veins : why arc you so fond of trade?" 
 
 " Because I am a mill-owner, of course. Half my 
 income comes from the works in that Hollow." 
 
 " Don't enter into partnership, that's all." 
 
 " You 've put it into my head ! you 've put it into 
 ray head !" she exclaimed, with a joyous laugli. " It
 
 FIELDHEAD. 303 
 
 will never get out : thank you." And waving her 
 hand, white as a lily and fine as a fairy's, she vanished 
 within the porch, while the Rector and his niece 
 passed out through the arched gateway. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 London : 
 
 Printed by Stewart and Mukrat, 
 
 Old Bailey.
 
 ^^1^' 
 
 .•>4- ■ 
 
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