"What gentlemen have you?" now inquired Mrs. Sykes. Their names were specified; she and her daughters interchanged glances. The curates were not to them what they were to Caroline. Mr. Sweeting was quite a favourite with 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 upstairs, 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 engravings, 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 rectory--an awful incubus!--have purchased the whole stock than contributed a single pin-cushion.

"What gentlemen have you?" inquired Mrs. Sykes. At their names, she and her daughters exchanged glances. The curates were not to them what they were to Caroline. Mr. Sweeting was quite a favourite with 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. "I always like to meet the clergy."
And now Caroline had to usher them upstairs, help them to unshawl, smooth their hair and make themselves smart; to lead them to the drawing-room, to distribute amongst them books of engravings, or odd things purchased from the Jew-basket.


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 "missionary-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 pin-cushions, needle-books, card-racks, workbags, articles of infant wear, etc., etc., etc., made by the willing or reluctant hands of the Christian ladies of a parish, and sold perforce to the heathenish gentlemen thereof, at prices unblushingly exorbitant. The proceeds of such compulsory sales are applied to the conversion of the Jews, the seeking up of the ten missing tribes, or to the regeneration of the interesting coloured population 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 turn comes round. Some active-minded woman, with a good 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 morning than that phantom basket, brought with "Mrs. Rouse's compliments; and please, ma'am, she says it's your turn now."
Miss 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.

It ought perhaps to be explained, for the benefit of those who are not au fait with the mysteries of the "Jew-basket" and "missionary-basket," that these are the size of a clothes-basket, dedicated to the purpose of conveying from house to house a monster collection of pin-cushions, needle-books, card-racks, articles of infant wear, etc., made by the willing or reluctant hands of the Christian ladies of a parish, and sold to the heathenish gentlemen thereof, at exorbitant prices. The proceeds are applied to the conversion of the Jews, or to the regeneration of the interesting coloured population of the globe. Each lady contributor keeps the basket a month, to sew for it, and to foist off its contents on a shrinking male public. Some active-minded women like it; other feebler souls object to it, and would rather see the prince of darkness at their door than that basket, brought with "Mrs. Rouse's compliments; and please, ma'am, she says it's your turn now."
After Miss Helstone had performed the duties of a hostess, she betook herself to the kitchen, to consult with Fanny and Eliza about the tea.


"What a lot on 'em!" cried Eliza, 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 importance 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."

"What a lot of 'em!" cried Eliza, the cook. "And I put off the baking today because I thought there would be plenty of bread till morning. We shall never have enow."
"Are there any tea-cakes?" asked Caroline.
"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."
"Fanny must run down to Briarfield and buy some muffins and crumpets and biscuits. And don't be cross, Eliza; we can't help it now."


"And which tea-things are we to have?"
"Oh, the best, I suppose. I'll get out the silver service." And she ran upstairs to the plate-closet, and presently brought down teapot, cream-ewer, and sugar-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. Heigh-ho! 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! 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.

Get it ready as quickly as you can, for the sooner we have tea the sooner they will go - at least, I hope so."
She sighed as she returned to the drawing-room. "Still," she thought, "if Robert would come even now, how bright all would be! There would be an interest in hearing him talk. There can be no interest in hearing any of them. How they will gabble when the curates come in! 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 plentiful in quantity. It was thought proper, too, that on the centre plate should stand a glass dish of marmalade. Among the viands was 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.

They are just different from me."
She went in.
Yorkshire people in those days took their tea round the table, sitting with their knees under the mahogany. It was essential to have a multitude of plates of bread and butter. It was thought proper, too, that on the centre plate should stand a glass dish of marmalade. They expected to find an assortment of cheesecakes and tarts. If there was also a plate of thin slices of pink ham garnished with parsley, so much the better.
Eliza, the rector's cook, fortunately knew her business. She had been put out of humour at first, but in due time the tea was spread forth in handsome style, and neither ham, tarts, nor marmalade were lacking.


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 doorway. 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 Sweeting 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 his peaked forehead 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 himself snugly between the lovely Harriet and the dashing Hannah. Miss Mary he requested to move to the seat opposite to him, that he might see her if he couldn't be near her. Perfectly easy and gallant, in his way, 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 intimate relation with him had ever feared rather than loved him.

The curates, summoned to this repast, entered joyous; but at once, on seeing the ladies, of whose presence they had not been warned, they came to a halt in the doorway. Malone, in front, stopped short and fell back, almost capsizing Donne behind him. Donne, staggering three paces in retreat, sent little Sweeting into the arms of old Helstone, who brought up the rear. There was some expostulation, some tittering. Malone was requested to mind what he was doing, and pushed forward at last, blushing.
Helstone welcomed his fair guests, shook hands and passed a jest with each, and seated himself snugly between the lovely Harriet and the dashing Hannah. Miss Mary he requested to move to the seat opposite him, so that he might see her if he couldn't be near her. He was always perfectly easy and gallant to young ladies, and popular amongst them; yet at heart he neither respected nor liked the sex, and those who had been brought into close relation with him had ever feared rather than loved him.


The curates 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 annoyance, for she had a peculiar antipathy to Donne, on account of his stultified and immovable self-conceit and his incurable narrowness of mind. Malone, grinning most unmeaningly, 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, circulating 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 when there were only men present, was usually tongue-tied in the presence of ladies. Three phrases, however, he had ready cut and dried, which he never failed to produce:--

Sweeting, the least embarrassed of the curates, took refuge beside Mrs. Sykes, who he knew was fond of him. Donne, after bowing and saying in a high voice, "How d'ye do, Miss Helstone?" dropped into a seat at Caroline's elbow, to her annoyance, for she had a peculiar antipathy to Donne, on account of his immovable self-conceit and narrowness of mind. Malone, grinning meaninglessly, sat on her other side. She knew neither man would be of any mortal use in keeping up the conversation, handing round cups, or even passing the muffins. Little Sweeting, small and boyish as he was, would have been worth twenty of them.
Malone, though a ceaseless talker when there were only men present, was usually tongue-tied in the presence of ladies. Three phrases, however, he had ready, which he never failed to produce:


1stly. "Have you had a walk to-day, Miss Helstone?"
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.

1st. "Have you had a walk today, Miss Helstone?"
2nd. "Have you seen your cousin Moore lately?"
3rd. "Does your class at the Sunday school keep up its number?"
These three questions being put and answered, between Caroline and Malone silence reigned.


With Donne it was otherwise; he was troublesome, 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 Briarfield; of the natives of Yorkshire generally; complaints 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 his 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 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 eternally 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 all the curates as, to the last degree, audacious and impious.

With Donne it was otherwise; he was exasperating. He had a stock of the most trite small-talk that can be imagined - abuse of the people of Briarfield; of the natives of Yorkshire generally; complaints of the lack of high society; of the backward state of civilization in these districts; and ridicule of the want of style and elegance in the area, as if he, Donne, had been accustomed to very great doings, an insinuation which his underbred manner failed to bear out.
These comments, he seemed to think, must raise him in Miss Helstone's estimation; whereas they brought him to a level below contempt. A Yorkshire girl herself, she hated to hear Yorkshire abused by such a pitiful prater. Then, incensed, she would turn and say it was no proof of refinement to be forever scolding others for vulgarity, and no sign of a good pastor to be eternally censuring his flock. She would ask him what he had entered the church for, since he complained there were only poor people to preach to. Had he been ordained merely to sit in king's houses? These questions were considered by all the curates as bold and impious.


Tea was a long time in progress; all the guests gabbled as their hostess had expected they would. Mr. 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--vis_, Miss Mary; though, as Mary 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 silly, as light-headed, as vain, as open to ridicule as possible, because they were then in reality what he held them to be, and wished them to be--inferior, toys to play with, to amuse a vacant hour, and to be thrown away.
Hannah was his favourite. Harriet, though beautiful, egotistical, and self-satisfied, was not quite weak enough for him. 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 permit herself to be treated quite as a doll, a child, a plaything; she expected to be bent to like a queen.

Tea was a long time in progress; the guests gabbled as their hostess had expected. Mr. Helstone kept up a brilliant flow of easy prattle with his neighbours, and even with Miss Mary; though, as Mary was the most sensible and least coquettish of the three, to her the rector was the least attentive. He could not abide sense in women. He liked to see them as silly, as light-headed, as vain, as open to ridicule as possible, because that was what he held them to be, and wished them to be - inferior, toys to play with, to amuse a vacant hour, and to be thrown away.
Hannah was his favourite. Harriet, though beautiful, egotistical, and self-satisfied, was not quite weak enough for him. She had some genuine self-respect amidst much false pride, and she did not babble like one crazy; she would not permit herself to be treated as a doll or a child; she expected to be bent to like a queen.


Hannah, on the contrary, demanded no respect, only flattery. If her admirers only _told_ her that she was an angel, she would let them _treat_ her like an idiot. So very credulous and frivolous was she, so very silly did she become when besieged with attention, flattered and admired to the proper degree, that there were moments when Helstone actually felt tempted to commit matrimony a second time, and to try the experiment of taking her for his second helpmeet; but fortunately the salutary recollection of the _ennuis_ of his first marriage, the impression still left on him of the weight of the millstone he had once worn round his neck, the fixity of his feelings respecting the insufferable evils of conjugal existence, operated as a check to his tenderness, suppressed the sigh heaving his old iron lungs, and restrained him from whispering to Hannah proposals it would have been high fun and great satisfaction to her to hear.
It is probable she would have married him if he had asked her; her parents would have quite approved the match. To them his fifty-five years, his bend-leather heart, could have presented no obstacles; and as he was a rector, held an excellent living, occupied a good house, and was supposed even to have private property (though in that the world was mistaken; every penny of the 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 hesitated about making a grand sacrifice to attain it)--her parents, I say, would have delivered Hannah over to his lovingkindness and his tender mercies without one scruple; and the second Mrs. Helstone, inverting the natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered through the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days a sordid, trampled worm.

Hannah, on the contrary, demanded no respect, only flattery. If her admirers told her that she was an angel, she would let them treat her like an idiot. So very credulous was she, so very silly when flattered and admired, 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 wife; but fortunately the boredom of his first marriage, the memory of the weight of the millstone he had once worn round his neck, checked his tenderness, and restrained him from whispering any proposals to Hannah.
She would probably have married him if he had asked her; her parents would have quite approved the match. To them his fifty-five years and leathery heart would have been no obstacles; and as he was a rector, with an excellent living and a good house, and was supposed 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 of a new church at his native village in Lancashire) - her parents, I say, would have delivered Hannah over to his tender mercies without one scruple; and the second Mrs. Helstone would have fluttered through the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days a sordid, trampled worm.


Little Mr. Sweeting, seated between Mrs. 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 blissful moment, it was that Miss Dora happened to be absent--Dora being the one whom he secretly hoped one day to call Mrs. David Sweeting, with 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 behind, she had the air of a very stout lady of forty; but withal she possessed a good face, and no unkindly character.

Little Mr. Sweeting, seated between Mrs. Sykes and Miss Mary, looked and felt more content than any monarch. He was fond of all the Misses Sykes; he thought them magnificent girls. He only regretted that Miss Dora happened to be absent - Dora being the one whom he secretly hoped one day to call Mrs. David Sweeting.


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 competent to swallow--long, indeed, after signs of impatience had been manifested all round the board, till chairs were pushed back, till the talk flagged, till silence fell. Vainly did Caroline inquire repeatedly if he would have another cup, if he would take a little hot tea, as that must be cold, etc.; he would neither drink it nor leave it. He seemed to think that this isolated position of his gave him somehow a certain importance, that it was dignified and stately to be the last, that it was grand to keep all the others waiting. So long did he linger, that the very urn died; it ceased to hiss. At length, however, the old rector himself, who had hitherto been too pleasantly engaged with Hannah to care for the delay, got impatient.
"For whom are we waiting?" he asked.
"For me, I believe," returned Donne complacently, appearing to think it much to his credit that a party should thus be kept dependent on his movements.

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 - long, indeed, after chairs were impatiently pushed back, talk flagged, and silence fell. Vainly did Caroline inquire if he would take a little hot tea, as that must be cold, etc.; he would neither drink it nor leave it. He seemed to think that this isolated position gave him importance, that it was dignified and stately to keep all the others waiting. At length, however, the old rector himself got impatient.
"For whom are we waiting?" he asked.
"For me, I believe," returned Donne complacently.


"Tut!" cried Helstone. Then standing up, "Let us return thanks," said he; which he did forthwith, and all quitted the table. Donne, nothing abashed, still sat ten minutes quite alone, whereupon Mr. Helstone rang the bell for the things to be removed. The curate at length saw himself forced to empty his cup, and to relinquish the _rle_ which, he thought, had given him such a felicitous distinction, drawing upon him such flattering general notice.

"Tut!" cried Helstone. Standing up, he said grace, and all quitted the table. Donne, unabashed, still sat ten minutes quite alone, until Mr. Helstone rang the bell for the tea-things to be removed. The curate was at last forced to empty his cup, and to relinquish the role which, he thought, had given him such distinction.


And now, in the natural course of events (Caroline, knowing how it would be, had opened the piano, and produced music-books in readiness), music was asked for. This was Mr. Sweeting's chance for showing off. He was eager to commence. He undertook, therefore, the arduous task of persuading the young ladies to favour the company with an air--a song. _Con amore_ he went through the whole business of begging, praying, resisting excuses, explaining away difficulties, and at last succeeded in persuading Miss Harriet to allow herself to be led to the instrument. Then out came the pieces of his flute (he always carried them in his pocket, as unfailingly as he carried his handkerchief). They were screwed and arranged, Malone and Donne meanwhile herding together and sneering at him, which the little man, glancing over his shoulder, saw, but did not heed at all. He was persuaded their sarcasm all arose from envy. They could not accompany the ladies as he could; he was about to enjoy a triumph over them.

And now music was asked for. This was Mr. Sweeting's chance to show off. He began, therefore, to persuade the young ladies to favour the company with a song. He went through the whole business of begging, praying, and resisting excuses, and at last succeeded in leading Miss Harriet to the piano. Then out came the pieces of his flute (he always carried them in his pocket). These were screwed together, Malone and Donne meanwhile sneering at him, which the little man did not heed at all. He was convinced they were envious because they could not accompany the ladies as he could.


The triumph began. Malone, much chagrined at hearing him pipe up in most superior style, determined to earn distinction too, if possible, and all at once assuming the character of a swain (which character he had endeavoured to enact once or twice before, but in which he had not hitherto met with the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved), approached a sofa on which 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 rolling them about for some time with strange gestures, he managed to erect a sort of barrier between himself and the object of his attentions. 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 ornamental knitting, a favour readily granted; and thus Peter Augustus was thrown out.
Very sullenly did his countenance lower when he saw himself abandoned--left entirely to his own resources, on a large sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his hands. The fact was, he felt disposed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss Helstone, because he thought, in common with others, that her uncle possessed money, and concluded that, since he had no children, he would probably leave it to his niece. Grard Moore was better instructed on this point: he had seen the neat church that owed its origin to the rector's zeal and cash, and more than once, in his inmost soul, had cursed an expensive caprice which crossed his wishes.
The evening seemed long to one person in that room. 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 around her,--the inharmonious, tasteless rattle of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes of the flute, the laughter and mirth of her uncle, and Hannah, and Mary, she could not tell whence originating, for she heard nothing comic or gleeful in their discourse; and more than all, by the interminable gossip of Mrs. Sykes murmured close at her ear, gossip which rang the changes on four subjects--her own health and that of the various members of her family; the missionary and Jew baskets and their contents; the late meeting at Nunnely, and one which was expected to come off next week at Whinbury.

His triumph began. Malone, chagrined at hearing him pipe up in most superior style, determined to earn distinction too, and approached a sofa on which Miss Helstone was seated. Depositing his great Irish frame near her, he tried a fine speech or two, accompanied by extraordinary and incomprehensible grins. In his efforts to make himself agreeable, he contrived to possess himself of the two long sofa cushions and a square one; with which, after rolling them about for some time, he managed to erect a sort of barrier between himself and the object of his attentions. Caroline soon made an excuse for moving to the opposite side of the room, and sat next to Mrs. Sykes, with whom she began to discuss ornamental knitting; and thus Peter Augustus was thrown out.
Very sullen he looked when he found himself abandoned on a large sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his hands. He wanted seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss Helstone, because he thought that her uncle possessed money which he would probably leave to his niece. (Grard Moore knew better: he had seen the neat church that owed its origin to the rector's zeal and cash, and had cursed the expensive caprice which crossed his wishes.)
The evening seemed long to Caroline. She dropped her knitting on her lap, and gave herself up to a sort of brain-lethargy, caused by the unmeaning hum around her - the rattle of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping of the flute, her uncle's laughter; and more than all, the interminable gossip of Mrs. Sykes murmured close at her ear.


Tired at length to exhaustion, she embraced the opportunity of Mr. Sweeting coming up to speak to Mrs. Sykes to slip quietly out of the apartment, and seek a moment's respite in solitude. She repaired to the dining-room, where the clear but now low remnant of a fire still burned in the grate. The place was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in their places, all was orderly. 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 Hollow. It stood on the threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the counting-house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the presence of Robert. It so happened that neither locality had that honour; for Robert was half a mile away from both, and much nearer to Caroline than her deadened spirit suspected. He was at this moment crossing the churchyard, approaching the rectory garden-gate--not, however, coming to see his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief piece of intelligence to the rector.

At length, when Mr. Sweeting came up to speak to Mrs. Sykes, she took the opportunity to slip quietly out of the room, and seek a moment's solitude. She went to the dining-room, where the low remnant of a fire still burned in the grate. The place was empty and quiet. Caroline sank into her uncle's large easy-chair, half shut her eyes, and rested her limbs. As to her mind, however, that flew directly to the Hollow. It stood on the threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the counting-house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the presence of Robert.
It so happened that Robert was much nearer to Caroline than she suspected. He was at this moment crossing the churchyard, approaching the rectory garden-gate - not, however, coming to see his cousin, but intent solely on giving a piece of news to the rector.


Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate; it rings again for the fifth time this afternoon. You start, and you are certain now that this must be he of whom you dream. Why you are so certain you cannot explain to yourself, but you know it. You lean forward, listening eagerly as Fanny opens the door. Right! That is _the_ voice--low, with the slight foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy. You half rise. "Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company, and then he will go away." Oh! she cannot let him go.

Yes, Caroline; you hear the bell ring for the fifth time this afternoon. You start, and you are certain now that this must be he. You lean forward, listening eagerly as Fanny opens the door. Right! That is the voice - low, with the slight foreign accent, but so sweet. You half rise, thinking, "Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company, and he will go away."
Oh! she cannot let him go.


In spite of herself, in spite of her reason, she walks half across the room; she stands ready to dart out in case the step should retreat; but he enters the passage. "Since your master is engaged," he says, "just show me into the dining-room. Bring me pen and ink. I will write a short note and leave it for him."

In spite of herself, she walks half across the room, ready to dart out in case he 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 for him."


Now, having caught these words, and hearing him advance, Caroline, if there was a door within the dining-room, would glide through it and disappear. She feels caught, hemmed in; she dreads her unexpected presence may annoy him. A second since she would have flown to him; that second past, she would flee from him. She cannot. There is no way of escape. The dining-room has but one door, through which now enters her cousin. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his face has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered a sort of apology:--
"I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little quiet."

Now, hearing him advance, Caroline would leave the dining room and disappear if she could. She feels caught; she dreads her unexpected presence may annoy him. But there is no way of escape. Her cousin enters: the look of troubled surprise she expected has appeared on his face, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered,
"I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little quiet."


There was something so diffident and downcast in the air and tone with which she said this, any one might perceive that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession had left her. Mr. Moore, probably, remembered how she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle ardour and hopeful confidence. He must have seen how the check of this morning had operated. Here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with effect, if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to 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. Caroline was about to follow her. Moore, to act consistently, should have let her go; whereas he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his hand, gently kept her back. He did not ask her to stay, but he would not let her go.

There was something so diffident in the way she said this, that anyone might see some saddening change had passed over her prospects. Mr. Moore probably remembered how she had used to meet him with hopeful confidence. He must have seen how the check of this morning had operated. Here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with effect. Perhaps he found it easier to practise that system in broad daylight, in his busy mill-yard, than in a quiet parlour in the evening.
Fanny lit the candles, brought writing materials, and left the room. Caroline was about to follow her. Moore, if consistent, should have let her go; whereas he stood in the doorway, and gently kept her back.


"Shall I tell my uncle you are here?" asked she, still in the same subdued voice.
"No; I can say to you all I had to say to him. You will be my messenger?"
"Yes, Robert."
"Then you may just inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames; that he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and Pearson's dressing-shop, and that I hope to have him in custody to-morrow. You can remember that?"
"Oh yes!" These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and as she said them she shook her head slightly and sighed. "Will you prosecute him?"

"Shall I tell my uncle you are here?" asked she, in the same subdued voice.
"No; I can say to you all I had to say to him. You will be my messenger?"
"Yes, Robert."
"Then you may inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames; and that I hope to have him in custody tomorrow. You can remember that?"
"Oh yes!" These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and she sighed. "Will you prosecute him?"


"Doubtless."
"No, Robert."
"And why no, Caroline?"
"Because it will set all the neighbourhood against you more than ever."
"That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief."
"But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. It is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and hit their mark 'at last.'"
Moore laughed.

"Doubtless."
"No, Robert. It will set the neighbourhood against you more than ever."
"That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a scoundrel."
"But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. Some of them boast that they can keep a stone in their pocket for years, before they hurl it and hit their mark."
Moore laughed.


"A most pithy vaunt," said he--"one that redounds 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."
"How can I help it? You are my cousin. If anything happened----" She stopped.
"Nothing will happen, Lina. To speak in your own language, there is a Providence above all--is there not?"

"Don't fear for me, Lina. I am on my guard. Don't make yourself uneasy about me."
"How can I help it? You are my cousin. If anything happened-" She stopped.
"Nothing will happen, Lina. To speak in your own language, there is a Providence above all


"Yes, dear Robert. May He guard you!"
"And if prayers have efficacy, yours will benefit me. You pray for me sometimes?"
"Not _sometimes_, Robert. You, and Louis, and Hortense are _always_ remembered."
"So I have often imagined. It has occurred to me when, weary and vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a heathen, that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night. I don't suppose such vicarial piety will avail much, but the petitions come out of a sincere breast, from innocent lips. They should be acceptable as Abel's offering; and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them."

 - and if prayers work, yours will benefit me. You pray for me sometimes?"
"You, Louis, and Hortense are always remembered in my prayers."
"So I have often imagined," he said. "When, weary and vexed, I have gone to bed without praying, it has occurred to me that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night. I hope your prayers for me are acceptable to God; they doubtless would be, if I deserved them."


"Annihilate that doubt. It is groundless."
"When a man has been brought up only to make money, and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea with anything divine; and very strange it seems that a good, pure heart should take him in and 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 thought), 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 duty to try to get on, and that it won't do for you to be romantic; but in future you must not misunderstand me if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not?"
"What made you think so?"

"Annihilate that doubt. It is groundless."
"When a man has been brought up only to make money, and scarcely breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter his name in a prayer; and very strange it seems that a good, pure heart should take him in and harbour him. If I could guide that heart, I believe I should counsel it to exclude one who has no higher aim in life than that of patching up his broken fortune."
The hint, though conveyed tenderly, was understood and felt keenly by Caroline.
"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. I know it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won't do for you to be romantic; but you must not misunderstand me if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not?"
"What made you think so?"


"Your look--your manner."
"But look at me now----"
"Oh! you are different now. At present I dare speak to you."
"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 Mr. Moore."
"Not a bit of Mr. Moore. Caroline----"

"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, and am your kinsman now. 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; Mr. 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. Caroline, good-night."

Here the company was heard rising in the other room. The carriage was ordered; shawls and bonnets were demanded.
"I must go, Robert."
"Yes, you must, or they will come in and find us here; and rather than meet all that host in the passage, I will leave through the French window. One minute only - put down the candle - good-night. I kiss you because we are cousins, and so one - two - three kisses are allowable. Caroline, good-night."


The next day Moore had risen before the sun, and had taken a ride to Whinbury and back ere his sister had made the caf au lait or cut the tartines for his breakfast. What business he transacted there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions: it was not her wont to comment on his movements, nor his to render an account of them. The secrets of business--complicated and often dismal mysteries--were buried in his breast, and never came out of their 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 his mercantile blood.
Breakfast over, he went to his counting-house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters and the daily papers; Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the documents, and glanced them over. They were all short, but not, it seemed, sweet--probably rather sour, on the contrary, for as Moore laid down the last, his nostrils emitted a derisive and defiant snuff, and though he burst into no soliloquy, there was a glance in his eye 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 newspaper.

The next day Moore had risen before the sun, and had ridden to Whinbury and back before his sister had made his coffee and breakfast. What business he did there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions.
Breakfast over, he went to his counting-house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters; Moore sat down and glanced them over. They were all short, but not, it seemed, sweet - probably rather sour, on the contrary; for as Moore laid down the last, he sniffed derisively, and his eye glittered in anger. He dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went to walk through the mill. On coming back he sat down to read his newspaper.


The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting; he more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire; he occasionally turned his head towards the window; he looked at intervals at his watch; in short, his mind appeared preoccupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather--for it was a fine and mild morning for the season--and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting-house stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine entered freely; but the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only an occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable from the gaunt mill-chimney.
A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered the words "He's comed, 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 gray 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 "raight dahn warm for Febewerry." 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 him an official-looking staff which he bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way of appearing at his ease.

The contents seemed not to absorb him; he turned his head towards the window; he looked at his watch, and appeared preoccupied. It was a fine, mild morning; perhaps he wished to be out in the fields. The door of his counting-house stood wide open, and the breeze and sunshine entered freely.
A dark-blue apparition - Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat - appeared at the open door, uttered the words "He's comed, sir," and vanished.
A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and grey woollen stockings, entered, was received with a nod, and told to take a seat. He removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief, saying that it was "raight dahn warm for Febewerry."
Mr. Moore uttered some slight sound of agreement. The visitor carefully deposited an official-looking staff in the corner; then he began to whistle.


"You have what is necessary, I suppose?" said Mr. Moore.
"Ay, ay! all's right."
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 reach of his long arm, 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 his guest,--
"Help yourself; there's water in that jar in the corner."
"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.

"You have what is necessary, I suppose?" said Mr. Moore.
"Ay, ay! all's right."
He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading. Presently, however, Moore turned to his cupboard, 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:
"Help yourself; there's water in that jar over there."


"Will you tak naught yourseln, Mr. Moore?" he inquired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and having 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 'll keep ye talking, nob'dy knows how long. Ye'll need propping."

"Will you tak naught yourseln, Mr. Moore?" inquired his guest, as he mixed a portion, tasted it, and sank back satisfied in his seat. Moore shook his head.
"Yah'd as good," continued his visitor; "it'd set ye up. Tak my advice and try a glass. Them lads that's coming 'll keep ye talking. Ye'll need propping."


"Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning?" inquired Moore.
"I seed him a hauf an hour--nay, happen a quarter of an hour sin', just afore I set off. He said he aimed to come here, and I sudn't wonder but ye'll 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 was, five minutes after, heard in the yard. It stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud, "Boy" (probably addressing Harry Scott, who usually hung about the premises from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.), "take my horse and lead him into the stable."
Helstone came in marching nimbly and erect, looking browner, keener, and livelier than usual.

"Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning?" inquired Moore.
"I seed him just afore I set off. He said he aimed to come here, and I sudn't wonder but ye'll have old Helstone too. I seed 'em saddling his little nag as I passed t' rectory."
The trot of the little nag's hoofs was, five minutes after, heard in the yard. A well-known nasal voice cried aloud, "Boy, lead my horse into the stable." Then Helstone came marching in, looking keener and livelier than usual.


"Beautiful morning, Moore. How do, my boy? Ha! whom have we here?" (turning to the personage with the staff). "Sugden! What! you're going to work directly? On my word, you lose no time. But I come to ask explanations.

"Beautiful morning, Moore. How do? Ha! whom have we here? Sugden! On my word, you lose no time.


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? I'll accompany you."
"You will be spared that trouble, sir; he is coming to seek me. I'm just now sitting in state waiting his arrival."

Your message was delivered to me, Moore. Are you sure you are on the right scent? Have you got a warrant?"
"Sugden has."
"Then you are going to seek him now? I'll accompany you."
"You will be spared that trouble, sir; he is coming to seek me. I'm awaiting 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 gentleman you often speak of."

"And who is it?"
Joe Scott had entered, like a sinister indigo phantom. He said:
"It's a friend of yours, Mr. Helstone: the Rev. Moses Barraclough.


"Indeed! His name, Joe? You look well this morning."
"Only the Rev. Moses Barraclough; t' tub orator you call him sometimes, I think."
"Ah!" said the rector, taking out his snuff-box, and administering to himself a very long pinch--"ah! couldn't have 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."

The tub orator you call him sometimes, I think."
"Ah!" said the rector, taking out his snuff-box, and helping himself to a long pinch. "Why, he never was a workman of yours, Moore. He's a tailor."
"And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for interfering and setting my 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 horseback, that his leg mightn't be noticed. He was the captain, and wore a mask. The rest only had their faces blackened."
"And how was he found out?"

"And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro' Moor, wooden leg and all?"
"Ay, sir," said Joe; "he went there on horseback. He was the captain, and wore a mask."
"And how was he found out?"


"I'll tell you, sir," said Joe. "T' maister's not so fond of talking. I've no objections. He courted 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's none of 'em nigh) she'd have encouraged him, in 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 mimmest-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.

"He courted Sarah, Mr. Moore's sarvant lass," said Joe, "and she would have nothing to say to him. Happen she'd have encouraged him, in spite of his leg and his deceit, just to pass time like. I've known some on 'em do as much - ay, I've seen trim young women, that looked as pure as daisies, turn out to be nowt but stinging nettles."
"Sensible fellow," said Helstone.


"Howsiver, Sarah had another string to her bow. Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her; and as women judge men by their faces--and Fred has a middling face, while Moses is none so handsome, as we all 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 tussle, 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, anybody that hears him roaring at a revival or a love-feast may be sure he's no weakling."

"Howsiver, Sarah had another string to her bow. Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her; and two-three months ago, Murgatroyd and Moses chanced to meet one Sunday night. They'd both come to ax Sarah to tak a walk wi' them. They fell out, had a tussle, 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."


"Joe, you're insupportable," here broke in Mr. Moore. "You spin out your explanation as Moses spins out his sermons. The long and short of it is, Murgatroyd was 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 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 Whinbury 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."

"In short," broke in Mr. Moore, "Murgatroyd was jealous of Barraclough; and last night, as he and a friend took shelter in a barn from a shower, they heard Moses talking with some associates within. From their talk it was plain he had been the leader, not only at Stilbro' Moor, but in the attack on Sykes's property. Moreover they planned to send a deputation to me this morning, which Barraclough is to head, and which, in the most religious and peaceful spirit, is to entreat me to give up my frames. I rode over to Whinbury this morning, got a constable and a warrant, and I am now waiting for the group. Here comes Sykes."


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? Have you got him? Is it over?" he asked.
"Not yet," returned Moore with phlegm. "We are waiting for them."

Mr. Sykes entered - a tall stout man of about fifty, who looked anxious.
"Have they been? Have you got him? Is it over?" he asked.
"Not yet," returned Moore. "We are waiting for them."


"They'll not come; it's near noon. Better give it up. It will excite bad feeling--make a stir--cause perhaps fatal consequences."
"_You_ need not appear," said Moore. "I shall meet them in the yard when they come; _you_ can stay here."
"But my name must be seen in the law proceedings. A wife and family, Mr. Moore--a wife and family make a man cautious."

"They'll not come; it's near noon. Better give it up. It will make a stir - may have fatal consequences."
"You need not appear," said Moore. "I shall meet them in the yard; you can stay here."
"But my name will be seen in the law proceedings. A wife and family make a man cautious."


Moore looked disgusted. "Give way, if you please," said he; "leave me to myself. I have no objection to act alone; only be assured you will not find safety in submission. Your partner Pearson gave way, and conceded, and forbore. 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 hollands and water, as Mr. Sykes discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof. It transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face, and made him at least _word_-valiant. He now announced that he hoped he was above being trampled on by the common people; he was determined to endure the insolence of the working-classes no longer; he had considered of it, and made up his mind to go all lengths; if money and spirit could put down these rioters, they should be put down; Mr. Moore might do as he liked, but _he_--Christie Sykes--would spend his last penny in law before he would be beaten; he'd settle them, or he'd see.
"Take another glass," urged Moore.

Moore looked disgusted. "I have no objection to act alone," he said; "only you will not find safety in yielding. Your partner Pearson gave way, but that did not prevent them from trying to shoot him in his own house."
"My dear sir, take a little wine and water," recommended Mr. Helstone. A brimming tumbler transfigured Mr. Sykes in two minutes. He now announced that he would endure the insolence of the working-classes no longer; he had made up his mind to put them down.
"Take another glass," urged 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; he had a little cough already (here he coughed in attestation of the fact); something of this sort (lifting the black bottle) was excellent, taken medicinally (he poured the physic into his tumbler); he didn't make a practice of drinking spirits in a morning, but occasionally it really was prudent to take precautions.
"Quite prudent, and take them by all means," urged the host.
Mr. Sykes now addressed Mr. Helstone, who stood on the hearth, his shovel-hat on his head, watching him significantly with his little, keen eyes.

Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did - just to keep the damp out; he had a little cough (here he coughed to prove the fact), and it really was prudent to take precautions.
"Quite prudent, and take them by all means," urged the host.
Mr. Sykes now addressed Mr. Helstone, who stood watching him keenly.


"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 belligerent. Really, there's an ardour excited by the thoughts of danger that makes my heart pant. When Mrs. 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 believe 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 rector. Moore would have pressed upon the heroic mill-owner a third tumbler, but the clergyman, who never transgressed, nor would suffer others in his presence to transgress, the bounds of decorum, checked him.

"You, sir, as a clergyman," said he, "may feel it disagreeable to be present amidst scenes of 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 belligerent. Really, if anybody was to attack my house - thieves or anything - I believe I should enjoy it, such is my spirit."
The rector laughed. Moore would have pressed a third tumbler upon the heroic mill-owner, but Helstone, for the sake of decorum, prevented him.


"Enough is as good as a feast, is it not, Mr. Sykes?" 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 kinswoman of his have said could she have seen her dear, good, great Robert--her Coriolanus--just now? Would she have acknowledged in that mischievous, sardonic visage the same face to which she had looked up with such love, which had bent over her with such gentleness last night? Was that the man who had spent so quiet an evening with his sister and his cousin--so suave to one, so tender to the other--reading Shakespeare and listening to Chnier?

"Enough is as good as a feast, is it not, Mr. Sykes?" he said; and Mr. Sykes assented regretfully. Moore looked mischievous and sardonic. What would a certain young kinswoman of his have said if she could have seen her dear, good, great Robert just now?


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, doubtless, 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 probably have said this to herself and excused him. Love can excuse anything except meanness; but meanness kills love, cripples even natural affection; without esteem true love cannot exist. 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 falsehood; neither was he the slave of his appetites. The active life to which he had been born and bred had given him something else to do than to join the futile chase of the pleasure-hunter. He was a man undegraded, the disciple of reason, _not_ the votary of sense. The same might be said of old Helstone. Neither of these two would look, think, or speak a lie; for neither of them had the wretched black bottle, which had just been put away, any charms.

Yes, it was the same man, only seen on a different side - a side Caroline had not yet beheld, though perhaps she suspected its existence. Well, Caroline had, doubtless, her defective side too. And Moore, with all his faults, might be respected, as might old Helstone. Neither of these two would look, think, or speak a lie; the wretched black bottle had no charms for either of them.


Both might boast a valid claim to the proud title of "lord of the creation," for no animal vice was lord of them; they looked and were superior beings to poor Sykes.
A sort of gathering and trampling sound was heard in the yard, and then a pause. 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, followed by the interjection "Whisht!" designed, as it seemed, to still 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.

Both of them looked and were superior beings to poor Sykes.
A trampling sound was heard in the yard. Moore walked to the window; Helstone followed. They looked forth carefully, so that they might not be visible from outside.
A flourishing oratorical cough was now heard, followed by "Whisht!" Moore opened his window an inch or two to admit sound.
"Joseph Scott," began a snuffling voice - Scott was standing sentinel at the counting-house door - "might we inquire if your master be within?"
"He's within, ay," said Joe.


"Would you then, if _you_ please" (emphasis on "you"), "have the goodness to tell _him_ that twelve gentlemen wants to see him."
"He'd happen ax what for," suggested Joe. "I mught 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."

"Would you then, if you please, tell him that twelve gentlemen wants to see him."
"He'd happen ax what for," suggested Joe.
"For a purpose," was the answer.
Joe entered. "Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to see ye, 'for a purpose.'"
"Good. Sugden, come when I whistle."


Moore went out, chuckling dryly. 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 conspicuously in the van of the party. One, a little dapper strutting man with a turned-up nose; the other a broad-shouldered fellow, distinguished no less by his demure face and cat like, trustless eyes than by a wooden leg and stout crutch. There was a kind of leer about his lips; he seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing; his whole air was anything but that of a true man.
"Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough," said Moore debonairly, for him.
"Peace be unto you!" was the answer, Mr. Barraclough entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes as he delivered it.

Moore went out, chuckling dryly. He advanced into the yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat, his cap brim over his eyes, shading their deep dancing ray of scorn.
Twelve men waited in the yard, with two in front: one, a little dapper strutting man with a turned-up nose; the other a broad-shouldered fellow, with demure, cat like, trustless eyes, and a wooden leg and crutch. He seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing.
"Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough," said Moore to him.
"Peace be unto you!" answered Mr. Barraclough, entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes.


"I'm obliged to you. Peace is an excellent thing; there's nothing I more wish for myself. But that is not all you have to say to me, I suppose? I imagine peace is not your purpose?"
"As to our purpose," began Barraclough, "it's one that may sound strange and perhaps foolish to ears like yours, for the childer of this world is wiser in their generation than the childer 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 purpose, and" (changing his voice from a half-sneer to a whine) "it's the Looard's own purpose, and that's better."

"I'm obliged to you. Peace is an excellent thing; but I imagine peace is not your purpose?"
"As to our purpose," began Barraclough, "it's one that may sound strange and perhaps foolish to ears like yours, for the childer of this world is wiser in their generation than the childer of light."
"To the point, if you please."
"Ye'se hear, sir. It is a grand purpose, and" (changing his voice to a whine) "it's the Looard's own purpose."


"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."
"I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; but as Providence has led ye to mention the subject, I'll make it i' my way to tak ony trifle ye may have to spare; the smallest contribution will be acceptable."
With that he doffed his hat, and held it out as a begging-box, a brazen grin at the same time crossing his countenance.
"If I gave you 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 dryly; "you don't care for showing 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."

"Do you want a subscription to a new Ranter's chapel, Mr. Barraclough?"
"I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; but since ye mention the subject, I'll tak ony small trifle ye may have to spare."
With that he doffed his hat, and held it out as a begging-box with a brazen grin.
"If I gave you sixpence you would drink it. You seem a fine fellow," said Moore dryly; "you don't mind showing me that your trade is hypocrisy and fraud. You expect to make me laugh at your cleverness, while at the same time you think you are deceiving the men behind you."


Moses' 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 background, stepped forward. This man did not look like a traitor, though he had an exceedingly self-confident and conceited air.

Moses Barraclough's countenance lowered. He was going to answer, when the second leader stepped forward impatiently, with a self-confident and conceited air.


"Mr. Moore," commenced he, speaking also in his throat and nose, and enunciating each word very slowly, as if with a view to giving his audience time to appreciate fully the uncommon elegance of the phraseology, "it might, perhaps, justly be said that reason rather than peace is our purpose. We come, in the first place, to request you 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) "which will probably terminate in--in bringing _you_ to a sense of the unwisdom, of the--the foolishness which seems to guide and guard your proceedings as a tradesman in this manufacturing part of the country. Hem! Sir, I would beg to allude that as a furriner, coming from a distant coast, another quarter and hemisphere of this globe, thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these shores--the cliffs of Albion--you have not that understanding of huz and wer ways which might conduce to the benefit of the working-classes. If, to come at once to partic'lars, you'd consider to give up this 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 say tull't, lads?" turning round to the other members of the deputation, who responded unanimously, "Hear, hear!"

"Mr. Moore," commenced he, enunciating each word very slowly, "it might, perhaps, 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 that measures will be had resort to which will bring you to a sense of the foolishness which seems to guide your proceedings as a tradesman. Hem! Sir, I would beg to allude that as a furriner, coming from a distant quarter of this globe, thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these cliffs of Albion, you have not that understanding of the ways which might conduce to the benefit of the working-classes. If you'd consider to give up this here mill, and go straight home to where you belong, it 'ud happen be as well."
The other members of the deputation responded: "Hear, hear!"


"Brayvo, Noah o' Tim's!" murmured Joe Scott, who stood behind Mr. Moore. "Moses'll niver beat that. Cliffs o' Albion, and t' other hemisphere! My certy! Did ye come fro' th' Antarctic Zone, maister? Moses is dished."
Moses, however, refused to be dished. He thought he would try again. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at "Noah o' Tim's," he launched out in his turn; and now he spoke in a serious tone, relinquishing the sarcasm which he found had not answered.

"Brayvo, Noah!" murmured Joe Scott, who stood behind Mr. Moore. "Moses'll niver beat that. Cliffs o' Albion! Moses is dished."
Moses, however, refused to be dished. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at Noah, he launched out in a more serious tone.


"Or iver you set up the pole o' your tent amang us, Mr. 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 mischief-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. Howsiver, my heart is of a softish nature. 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' your infernal machinery, and tak on more hands."
"What if I don't follow your advice, Mr. Barraclough?"
"The Looard pardon you! The Looard soften your heart, sir!"
"Are you in connection with the Wesleyans now, Mr. Barraclough?"

"Before you set up your tent among us, Mr. Moore, we lived i' peace and quietness - yea, in loving-kindness. I can remember some twenty year back, when hand-labour were respected, and no mischief-maker had ventured to introduce these here machines. Now, I'm a tailor myself. Howsiver, my heart is of a softish nature. I'm a very feeling man, and when I see my brethren oppressed, I stand up for 'em. Therefore I advise you to part wi' your infernal machinery, and tak on more hands."
"What if I don't follow your advice, Mr. Barraclough?"
"The Looard pardon you!"
"Are you a Wesleyan now, Mr. Barraclough?"


"Praise God! Bless His name! 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 business of your life to stir up dissension. You no more sympathize with the poor who are in distress than you sympathize with me. You incite them to outrage for bad purposes of your own; so does the individual called Noah of Tim's. You two are restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels, whose chief motive-principle is a selfish ambition, as dangerous 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.

"Praise God! Bless His name! I'm a joined Methody!"
"Which does not prevent you from being a drunkard and a swindler. I saw you a week ago laid dead-drunk by the roadside, as I returned from Stilbro' market; and while you preach peace, you spend your life stirring up dissension. You no more sympathize with the poor than you do with me. You incite them to outrage for bad purposes of your own; so does this Noah. You two are restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels, whose motive is selfish ambition. Behind you are some 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! Here I stay, and by this mill I stand, and into it will I convey the best machinery inventors can furnish. What will you do? The utmost you _can_ do--and this you will never _dare_ to do--is to burn down my mill, destroy its contents, and shoot me. What then?

"Silence! You have had your say, and now I will have mine. I will not be dictated to by you. You want me to quit the country, and to part with my machinery. If I refuse, you threaten me. I do refuse. Here I stay, and by this mill I stand, and into it will I convey the best machinery invented. What will you do? Burn down my mill and shoot me? What then?


Suppose that building was a ruin and I was a corpse--what then, you lads behind these two scamps? Would that stop invention or exhaust science? Not for the fraction of a second of time! 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'll make my cloth as I please, and according to the best lights I have. In its manufacture I will employ what means I choose. Whoever, after hearing this, shall dare to interfere with me may just take the consequences. An example shall prove I'm in earnest."

Suppose that building was a ruin and I was a corpse - would that stop invention? Not for a second! Another mill would rise on the ruins of this, and perhaps a more enterprising owner come in my place. Hear me! I'll make my cloth as I please, and using what means I choose. Whoever interferes with me may take the consequences. I'll prove I'm in earnest."


He whistled shrill and loud. Sugden, his staff and warrant, came on 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 him!"
Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to rescue, but the right hand which all this while had lain hidden in Moore's breast, reappearing, held out a pistol.

He whistled shrilly and loud. Sugden came out with his staff and warrant.
Moore turned sharply to Barraclough. "You were on Stilbro' moor," said he; "I have proof of that. You wore a mask, you knocked down one of my men with your own hand - you! a preacher of the gospel! Sugden, arrest him!"
Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to rescue him, but Moore's right hand, which had lain hidden in his breast, reappeared holding 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, and to bolt the door inside. For himself, he walked backwards and forwards along the front of the mill, looking meditatively on the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but still holding the pistol. The eleven remaining deputies watched him some time, talking under their breath to each other. At length one of them approached. This man looked very different from either of the two who had previously spoken; he was hard-favoured, but modest and manly-looking.

"Both barrels are loaded," said he. "Keep off!"
He guarded his prey to the counting-house. He ordered Joe Scott to enter with Sugden and the prisoner, and to bolt the door from inside. Then he walked backwards and forwards along the front of the mill, looking meditatively on the ground, but still holding the pistol.
The eleven remaining deputies watched him, talking under their breath to each other. At length one of them approached.


"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 ill 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. What 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 willn'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 mills and breaking machines--for, as ye say, that way o' going on'll niver stop invention; but I'll talk--I'll mak as big a din as ever I can.

"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; it's just to try to get things straightened. Ye see we're ill off; our families is poor and pined. We're thrown out o' work wi' these frames; we can earn nought. What is to be done? Mun we lay us down and dee? I've no grand words, Mr. Moore, but I feel that a reasonable man should not starve to death. I'm not for shedding blood, and I'm not for pulling down mills and breaking machines - for as ye say, that niver stops invention; but I'll mak as big a din as ever I can.


Invention may be all 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 make fresh orderations. Ye'll say that's hard to do. So mich louder mun we shout out then, for so much slacker will 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 workman. "Willn't ye gie us a bit o' time? Willn't ye consent to mak your changes rather more slowly?"

I know it isn't right for poor folks to starve. Them that governs mun find a way to help us. Ye'll say that's hard to do. So much louder mun we shout out then, to set t' Parliament-men on to the job."
"Worry the Parliament-men as much as you please," said Moore; "but to worry the mill-owners is absurd, and I won't stand it."
"Ye're a raight hard un!" returned the workman. "Won't ye gie us a bit o' time? Won't ye mak your changes 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 machinery. I will have my own way. I shall get new frames in to-morrow. If you broke these, I would still get more. _I'll never give in._"

"Others won't stop. If I did, I should be bankrupt in a month; and would that put bread into your hungry children's mouths? William Farren, talk to me no more about machinery. I shall get new frames in tomorrow. If you broke these, I would still get more. I'll never give in."


Here the mill-bell rang twelve o'clock. It was the dinner-hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered his counting-house.
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 honourably content if he could but get work to do--Moore might have made a friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn from such a man without a conciliatory or a sympathizing expression. The poor fellow's face looked haggard with want; he had the aspect of a man who had not known what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months, past, and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in his countenance; it was worn, dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words, "I'll never give in," and not a whisper of good-will, or hope, or aid?

Here the mill-bell rang twelve o'clock. Moore abruptly turned away and re-entered his counting-house.
His last words had left a harsh impression. By speaking kindly to William Farren, who was a very honest, hard-working man, Moore might have made a friend. It seemed extraordinary that he could turn from such a man without any sympathy. The poor fellow looked haggard with want and hunger; yet there was no malignity in his face; it was worn, dejected, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words, "I'll never give in," and not a whisper of good-will, 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.
On his entrance his 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. While his wife quieted them as well as she could, he left his seat and went to the door. He whistled a cheery stave, which did not, however, prevent a broad drop or two (much more like the "first of a 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 stern one followed.

Farren, as he went home to his cottage - once a decent, 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, unfeeling, and foolish man. He felt cast down - almost hopeless.
On his entrance his wife served out 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, which disturbed William much. While his wife quieted them as well as she could, he went to the doorway to conceal from his family the tears which were gathering in his grey eyes. He cleared his vision with his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one followed.


He still stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came up--a clergyman, 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, wore an abstracted and somewhat doleful air; but in approaching Farren he looked up, and then a hearty expression illuminated the preoccupied, serious face.
"Is it you, William? How are you?" he asked.
"Middling, Mr. Hall. How are _ye_? Will ye step in and rest ye?"

He stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came up - a clergyman, but not one we have met before. He was about forty years old; plain-looking, and rather grey-haired. He wore an abstracted and somewhat doleful air; but on approaching Farren he looked up with a hearty expression.
"Is it you, William? How are you?" he asked.
"Middling, Mr. Hall. How are ye? Will ye step in and rest ye?"


Mr. Hall, whose name the reader has seen mentioned before (and who, indeed, was vicar of 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 good-wife and the children, sat down. He proceeded to talk very cheerfully about the length of time that had elapsed since the family quitted his parish, the changes which had occurred since; he answered questions touching his sister Margaret, who 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 his knee, and the father and mother stood before him--he 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 expressions.
"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."
"Has Mr. Moore 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 like you to say so, William."

Mr. Hall was vicar of Nunnely, from which parish Farren originally came, before he had moved to Briarfield to work in the mill. He entered the cottage, and having greeted the wife and children, sat down. He talked very cheerfully about events in his parish since the family had left; he answered questions about his sister Margaret; he asked questions in his turn, and at last, glancing anxiously round at the bare room, and at the faces of the children by his knee, he said abruptly:
"How are you all? How do you get on?"
"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."
"Has Mr. Moore turned you off?"
"He has turned us off; and if he'd tak me on again tomorrow I wouldn't work for him."
"That is not like you, William."


"I know it isn't; but I'm getting different to mysel'; I feel I am changing. I wadn'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. William, 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 children on to his knee, and placed his hand on the head of the next least; but when the small things began to chatter to him he bade them "Whisht!" and fixing his eyes on the grate, he regarded the handful of embers which burned there very gravely.

"I know; but I feel I am changing. T' bairns and t' wife are that pinched-"
"Well, my lad, and so are you. These are grievous times; I see suffering wherever I turn. Sit down, and let us talk it over."
Mr. Hall lifted the smallest child on to his knee, and placed his hand on the head of the next smallest.


"Sad times," he said, "and they last long. It is the will of God. His will be done. But He tries us to the utmost."
Again he reflected.
"You've no money, William, and you've nothing you could sell 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 tea-tray and set o' cheeney 'at she brought for a portion when we were wed."
"And if somebody lent you a pound or two, could you make any good use of it? Could you get into a new way of doing something?"

"Sad times," he said, "and they last long. It is the will of God. His will be done. But He tries us to the utmost."
Again he reflected.
"You've no money, William, and you've nothing you could sell to raise any?"
"No. I've selled t' chest o' drawers, and t' clock, and a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny tea-tray and set o' wedding chiney."
"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 very contriving chap is our William. If he'd two or three pounds he could begin selling stuff."
"Could you, William?"
"Please God," returned William deliberately, "I could buy groceries, and bits o' tapes, and thread, and what I thought would sell, and I could begin hawking 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 shouldn't praise him; but I _will_ say there's not a soberer, honester man i' England nor he is."
"Well, I'll 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."

Farren did not answer, but his wife said quickly, "Ay, I'm sure he could, sir. He's a very contriving chap, is our William. If he'd two or three pounds he could begin selling stuff."
"Please God," returned William deliberately, "I could buy groceries, and bits o' tapes, and thread, and I could begin hawking at first."
"And you know, sir," interposed Grace, "William would neither drink, nor idle, nor waste, in any way. He's my husband, and I shouldn't praise him; but I will say there's not a soberer, honester man i' England."
"Well, I'll speak to one or two friends, and I think I can promise to let him have five pounds in a day or two - as a loan, 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 catechism, while your mother goes and buys some dinner; for you've not had much to-day, I'll be bound.--You begin, Ben. What is your name?"
Mr. 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 religious consolation and exhortation. With a mutual "God bless you, sir!" "God bless you, my friends!" they separated.

"I understand, sir. I'm quite agreeable to that."
"Meantime, there's a few shillings for you, Grace, just to keep the pot boiling. - Now, bairns, stand in a row and say your catechism, while your mother goes and buys some dinner; for you've not had much today, I'll be bound. You begin, Ben."
Mr. Hall stayed till Grace came back; then he took his leave, shaking hands with both Farren and his wife, and saying a few brief but very earnest words of religious consolation.
With a mutual "God bless you, sir!" "God bless you, my friends!" they separated.


"Of course, I know he will marry Shirley," were her first words when she rose in the morning. "And he ought to marry her. She can help him," she added firmly. "But I shall be forgotten when they _are_ married," was the cruel succeeding thought. "Oh! I shall be wholly forgotten! And what--_what_ shall I do when Robert is taken quite from me? Where shall I turn? _My_ Robert! I wish I could justly call him mine.

"Of course, I know he will marry Shirley," were her first words when she rose in the morning. "And he ought to marry her. She can help him."
But the cruel next thought was, "Oh! I shall be wholly forgotten when they are married! And what shall I do when Robert is quite taken from me? Where shall I turn? My Robert! I wish I could call him mine.


But I am poverty and incapacity; Shirley is wealth and power. And she is beauty too, and love. I cannot deny it. This is no sordid suit. She loves him--not with inferior feelings. She loves, or _will_ love, as he must feel proud to be loved. Not a valid objection can be made. Let them be married, then. But afterwards I shall be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all that stuff, I despise it.

But I am poverty; Shirley is wealth and power, and beauty too, and love. I cannot deny it. She loves him. Let them be married, then. But afterwards I shall be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all that stuff, I despise it.