There were nights when it failed to appear. She knew then that Robert was from home, and went away doubly sad; whereas its kindling rendered her elate, as though she saw in it the promise of some indefinite hope. If, while she gazed, a shadow bent between the light and lattice, her heart leaped. That eclipse was Robert; she had seen him. She would return home comforted, carrying in her mind a clearer vision of his aspect, a distincter recollection of his voice, his smile, his bearing; and blent with these impressions was often a sweet persuasion that, if she could get near him, his heart might welcome her presence yet, that at this moment he might be willing to extend his hand and draw her to him, and shelter her at his side as he used to do. That night, though she might weep as usual, she would fancy her tears less scalding; the pillow they watered seemed a little softer; the temples pressed to that pillow ached less.
The shortest path from the Hollow to the rectory wound near a certain mansion, the same under whose lone walls Malone passed on that night-journey mentioned in an early chapter of this work--the old and tenantless dwelling yclept Fieldhead. Tenantless by the proprietor it had been for ten years, but it was no ruin. Mr. Yorke had seen it kept in good repair, and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it, cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in habitable condition.

There were nights when it failed to appear. She knew then that Robert was from home, and went away doubly sad; whereas its kindling elated her, like the promise of some indefinite hope. If, while she gazed, a shadow appeared before the light, her heart leaped. That was Robert; she had seen him. She would return home comforted, and persuaded that, if she could get near him, he might welcome her yet, he might extend his hand and draw her to him, as he used to do. That night, though she might weep, she would fancy her tears less scalding; her head ached less.
The shortest path from the Hollow to the rectory passed a certain mansion: the old and tenantless dwelling called Fieldhead. Tenantless it had been for ten years, but it was no ruin. Mr. Yorke had kept it in good repair, and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it, cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house.


If Fieldhead had few other merits as a building, it might at least be termed picturesque. Its regular architecture, and the gray and mossy colouring communicated by time, gave it a just claim to this epithet. The old latticed windows, the stone porch, the walls, the roof, the chimney-stacks, were rich in crayon touches and sepia lights and shades. The trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading; the cedar on the lawn in front was grand; and the granite urns on the garden wall, the fretted arch of the gateway, were, for an artist, as the very desire of the eye.
One mild May evening Caroline, passing near about moonrise, and feeling, though weary, unwilling yet to go home, where there was only the bed of thorns and the night of grief to anticipate, sat down on the mossy ground near the gate, and gazed through towards cedar and mansion. It was a still night--calm, dewy, cloudless; the gables, turned to the west, reflected the clear amber of the horizon they faced; the oaks behind were black; the cedar was blacker. Under its dense, raven boughs a glimpse of sky opened gravely blue. It was full of the moon, which looked solemnly and mildly down on Caroline from beneath that sombre canopy.

Fieldhead was picturesque, grey and mossy: the old latticed windows, the stone porch, the walls, the chimney-stacks, were rich in sepia lights and shades. The trees behind were fine and spreading; the cedar on the front lawn was grand; and the granite urns over the arch of the gateway were pleasing to the eye.
One mild May evening Caroline, passing near about moonrise, and unwilling yet to go home, sat down on the mossy ground near the gate of Fieldhead, and gazed through it towards the cedar and the mansion. It was a still, cloudless night; the gables, facing west, reflected the clear amber of the horizon; the cedar was black. Under its dense, raven boughs a glimpse of sky opened gravely blue. It was full of the moon, which looked solemnly down on Caroline.


She felt this night and prospect mournfully lovely. She wished she could be happy; she wished she could know inward peace; she wondered Providence had no pity on her, and would not help or console her. Recollections of happy trysts of lovers, commemorated in old ballads, returned on her mind; she thought such tryst in such scene would be blissful. Where now was Robert? she asked. Not at the Hollow; she had watched for his lamp long, and had not seen it. She questioned within herself whether she and Moore were ever destined to meet and speak again. Suddenly the door within the stone porch of the hall opened, and two men came out--one elderly and white-headed, the other young, dark-haired, and tall. They passed across the lawn, out through a portal in the garden wall. Caroline saw them cross the road, pass the stile, descend the fields; she saw them disappear.

She felt the view was mournfully lovely. She wished she could be happy and have peace. Where now was Robert? she asked. Not at the Hollow; she had watched for his lamp, and had not seen it.
Suddenly the door within the stone porch of the hall opened, and two men came out - one elderly and white-headed, the other young, dark-haired, and tall. They walked across the lawn and through a gate in the garden wall. Caroline saw them pass the stile, descend the fields and disappear.


Robert Moore had passed before her with his friend Mr. Yorke. Neither had seen her.
The apparition had been transient--scarce seen ere gone; but its electric passage left her veins kindled, her soul insurgent. It found her despairing, it left her desperate--two different states.

Robert Moore had passed before her with his friend Mr. Yorke. Neither had seen her.
The apparition was fleeting; but at its electric passage her veins kindled, her soul surged. It left her desperate.


"Oh, had he but been alone! had he but seen me!" was her cry. "He would have said something. He would have given me his hand. He _does_, he _must_, love me a little. He would have shown some token of affection. In his eye, on his lips, I should have read comfort; but the chance is lost. The wind, the cloud's shadow, does not pass more silently, more emptily than he. I have been mocked, and Heaven is cruel!"

"Oh, had he only been alone! had he only seen me!" was her cry. "He would have said something. He would have given me his hand. He does, he must, love me a little. Oh, Heaven is cruel!"


Thus, in the utter sickness of longing and disappointment, she went home.
The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared white-cheeked and miserable-looking as one who had seen a ghost, she inquired of Mr. Helstone, "Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiring for a situation in a family?"
Her uncle, ignorant as the table supporting his coffee-cup of all his niece had undergone and was undergoing, scarcely believed his ears.
"What whim now?" he asked. "Are you bewitched? What can you mean?"
"I am not well, and need a change," she said.

Thus, in the utter sickness of longing and disappointment, she went home.
The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared white-faced and miserable-looking, she asked Mr. Helstone:
"Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiring for a situation in a family?"
Her uncle, ignorant of all his niece was undergoing, scarcely believed his ears.
"What whim now? Are you bewitched? What can you mean?"
"I am not well, and need a change," she said.


He examined her. He discovered she had _experienced_ a change, at any rate. Without his being aware of it, the rose had dwindled and faded to a mere snowdrop; bloom had vanished, flesh wasted; she sat before him drooping, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance of her hair, she would no longer have possessed a claim to the epithet pretty.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" he asked. "What is wrong? How are you ailing?"
No answer; only the brown eyes filled, the faintly-tinted lips trembled.

He examined her. He saw that the rose had faded to a snowdrop; her bloom had vanished, her flesh wasted; she sat before him drooping, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance of her hair, she would no longer have any claim to be called pretty.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" he asked. "How are you ailing?"
No answer; only the brown eyes filled, the pale lips trembled.


"Look out for a situation, indeed! For what situation are you fit? What have you been doing with yourself? You are not well."
"I should be well if I went from home."

"Look out for a situation, indeed! For what situation are you fit? What have you been doing with yourself? You are not well."
"I should be well if I left home."


"These women are incomprehensible. They have the strangest knack of startling you with unpleasant surprises. To-day you see them bouncing, buxom, red as cherries, and round as apples; to-morrow they exhibit themselves effete as dead weeds, blanched and broken down. And the reason of it all? That's the puzzle. She has her meals, her liberty, a good house to live in, and good clothes to wear, as usual. A while since that sufficed to keep her handsome and cheery, and there she sits now a poor, little, pale, puling chit enough. Provoking! Then comes the question, What is to be done? I suppose I must send for advice.

"These women are incomprehensible. They are full of unpleasant surprises. Today you see them bouncing, red as cherries, and round as apples; tomorrow they look as feeble as dead weeds. And why? That's the puzzle. She has her meals, her liberty, a good house to live in, and good clothes to wear. Yet there she sits a poor, little, pale, puling chit. Provoking! I suppose I must send for advice.


Will you have a doctor, child?"
"No, uncle, I don't want one. A doctor could do me no good. I merely want change of air and scene."
"Well, if that be the caprice, it shall be gratified. You shall go to a watering-place. I don't mind the expense. Fanny shall accompany you."
"But, uncle, some day I must do something for myself; I have no fortune. I had better begin now."

Will you have a doctor, child?"
"No, uncle. A doctor could do me no good. I merely want change of air and scene."
"Well, that you can have. You shall go to a watering-place. I don't mind the expense. Fanny shall accompany you."
"But, uncle, some day I must do something for myself; I have no fortune. I had better begin now."


"While I live, you shall not turn out as a governess, Caroline. I will not have it said that my niece is a governess."
"But the later in life one makes a change of that sort, uncle, the more difficult and painful it is. I should wish to get accustomed to the yoke before any habits of ease and independence are formed."

"While I live, you shall not be a governess, Caroline. I will not have it said that my niece is a governess."
"But the later in life one makes a change of that sort, uncle, the more difficult and painful it is. I should wish to get accustomed to the work."


"I beg you will not harass me, Caroline. I mean to provide for you. I have always meant to provide for you. I will purchase an annuity. Bless me! I am but fifty-five; my health and constitution are excellent. There is plenty of time to save and take measures. Don't make yourself anxious respecting the future. Is that what frets you?"
"No, uncle; but I long for a change."

"I beg you will not harass me, Caroline. I mean to provide for you. Bless me! I am only fifty-five; my health is excellent. There is plenty of time to take measures. Don't make yourself anxious about the future. Is that what frets you?"
"No, uncle; but I long for a change."


He laughed. "There speaks the woman!" cried he, "the very woman! A change! a change! Always fantastical and whimsical! Well, it's in her sex."
"But it is not fantasy and whim, uncle."
"What is it then?"

He laughed. "There speaks the very woman!" cried he. "A change! Always fantastical and whimsical! Well, it's in her sex."
"But it is not fantasy and whim, uncle. It is


"Necessity, I think. I feel weaker than formerly. I believe I should have more to do."
"Admirable! She feels weak, and _therefore_ she should be set to hard labour--'clair comme le jour,' as Moore--confound Moore! You shall go to Cliff Bridge; and there are two guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary, never fear. We'll find balm in Gilead."
"Uncle, I wish you were less generous and more----"
"More what?"

 necessity, I think. I feel weaker than formerly. I believe I should have more to do."
"Admirable! She feels weak, and therefore she should be set to hard labour. There are two guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary, never fear."
"Uncle, I wish you were less generous and more-"
"More what?"


Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but it was not uttered. She checked herself in time. Her uncle would indeed have laughed if that namby-pamby word had escaped her. Finding her silent, he said, "The fact is, you don't know precisely what you want."
"Only to be a governess."

Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but she checked herself. Her uncle would have laughed at that namby-pamby word.
Finding her silent, he said, "The fact is, you don't know precisely what you want."
"Only to be a governess."


"Pooh! mere nonsense! I'll not hear of governessing. Don't mention it again. It is rather too feminine a fancy. I have finished breakfast. Ring the bell. Put all crotchets out of your head, and run away and amuse yourself."

"Pooh! mere nonsense! Don't mention it again. I have finished breakfast. Ring the bell, and then run away and amuse yourself."


"What with? My doll?" asked Caroline to herself as she quitted the room.


A week or two passed; her bodily and mental health neither grew worse nor better. She was now precisely in that state when, if her constitution had contained the seeds of consumption, decline, or slow fever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, and would soon have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love or grief alone, though some die of inherent maladies which the tortures of those passions prematurely force into destructive action. The sound by nature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered; their beauty and bloom perish, but life remains untouched. They are brought to a certain point of dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility, and emaciation. People think, as they see them gliding languidly about, that they will soon withdraw to sick-beds, perish there, and cease from among the healthy and happy. This does not happen. They live on; and though they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and serenity. The blossom which the March wind nips, but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a withered apple on the tree late into autumn: having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of winter.

A week or two passed; her bodily and mental health neither grew worse nor better. She was now precisely in that state when, if her constitution had contained the seeds of consumption or slow fever, those diseases would have rapidly developed, and would soon have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love or grief alone. If they have no other malady, they may become pale and thin, but they live on; and though they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and serenity.


Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and most people said she was going to die. She never thought so herself. She felt in no dying case; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her appetite was diminished; she knew the reason. It was because she wept so much at night. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it. Sleep was coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful. In the far future she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of misery should be got over, and when she should once more be calm, though perhaps never again happy.

Everyone noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and most people said she was going to die. She never thought so herself. Her appetite was diminished; she knew it was because she wept so much at night. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it. Sleep was hard, and her dreams were distressing. But she felt that in the far future this time of misery should be got over, and she should once more be calm, though perhaps never again happy.


Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit, to comply with the frequent invitations of their acquaintance. This she evaded doing. She could not be cheerful in company; she felt she was observed there with more curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her their advice, recommending this or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her in a way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they knew she had been "disappointed," as custom phrases it; by whom, they were not certain.
Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as commonplace young gentlemen--quite as worldly and selfish. Those who suffer should always avoid them. Grief and calamity they despise; they seem to regard them as the judgments of God on the lowly. With them, to "love" is merely to contrive a scheme for achieving a good match; to be "disappointed" is to have their scheme seen through and frustrated. They think the feelings and projects of others on the subject of love similar to their own, and judge them accordingly.

Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit their acquaintance. This she evaded doing. She could not be cheerful in company; she felt she was observed with more curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her their advice, recommending remedies; young ladies looked at her in a way from which she shrank. Their eyes said they knew she had been "disappointed"; by whom, they were not certain.
Commonplace young ladies can be quite as worldly and hard as commonplace young gentlemen. Grief and calamity they despise; they regard them as the judgments of God on the lowly. With them, to "love" is merely to contrive a scheme for achieving a good match; to be "disappointed" is to have their scheme frustrated.


All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly by observation. She regulated her conduct by her knowledge, keeping her pale face and wasted figure as much out of sight as she could. Living thus in complete seclusion, she ceased to receive intelligence of the little transactions of the neighbourhood.
One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she sat endeavouring to find some pleasure in painting a little group of wild flowers, gathered under a hedge at the top of the Hollow fields, and said to her in his abrupt manner, "Come, child, you are always stooping over palette, or book, or sampler; leave that tinting work. By-the-bye, do you put your pencil to your lips when you paint?"
"Sometimes, uncle, when I forget."

All this Caroline knew, and she kept her pale face and wasted figure as much out of sight as she could. Living thus in seclusion, she ceased to hear news of the little events of the neighbourhood.
One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she sat trying to find some pleasure in painting wild flowers, and said to her in his abrupt manner, "Come, child, leave that work.


"Then it is that which is poisoning you. The paints are deleterious, child. There is white lead and red lead, and verdigris, and gamboge, and twenty other poisons in those colour cakes. Lock them up! lock them up! Get your bonnet on. I want you to make a call with me."
"With _you_, uncle?"

Get your bonnet on. I want you to make a call with me."
"With you, uncle?"


This question was asked in a tone of surprise. She was not accustomed to make calls with her uncle. She never rode or walked out with him on any occasion.
"Quick! quick! I am always busy, you know. I have no time to lose."
She hurriedly gathered up her materials, asking, meantime, where they were going.
"To Fieldhead."

She was surprised; she was not accustomed to make calls with her uncle.
"Quick! I have no time to lose. I am going to Fieldhead."


"Fieldhead! What! to see old James Booth, the gardener? Is he ill?"
"We are going to see Miss Shirley Keeldar."
"Miss Keeldar! Is she coming to Yorkshire? Is she at Fieldhead?"

"Fieldhead! Why?"
"We are going to see Miss Shirley Keeldar.


"She is. She has been there a week. I met her at a party last night--that party to which you would not go. I was pleased with her. I choose that you shall make her acquaintance. It will do you good."
"She is now come of age, I suppose?"

She has been at Fieldhead a week. I met her at a party last night - that party to which you would not go. I was pleased with her. I choose that you shall make her acquaintance. It will do you good."
"She is now twenty-one and come of age, I suppose?"


"She is come of age, and will reside for a time on her property. I lectured her on the subject; I showed her her duty. She is not intractable. She is rather a fine girl; she will teach you what it is to have a sprightly spirit. Nothing lackadaisical about _her_."
"I don't think she will want to see me, or to have me introduced to her. What good can I do her? How can I amuse her?"
"Pshaw! Put your bonnet on."

"Yes, and will reside for a time on her property. I lectured her on the subject; I showed her her duty. She is not intractable. She is rather a fine girl; nothing lackadaisical about her."
"I don't think she will want to see me. What good can I do her?"
"Pshaw! Put your bonnet on."


"Is she proud, uncle?"
"Don't know. You hardly imagine she would show her pride to me, I suppose? A chit like that would scarcely presume to give herself airs with the rector of her parish, however rich she might be."
"No. But how did she behave to other people?"


"Didn't observe. She holds her head high, and probably can be saucy enough where she dare. She wouldn't be a woman otherwise. There! Away now for your bonnet at once!"
Not naturally very confident, a failure of physical strength and a depression of spirits had not tended to increase Caroline's presence of mind and ease of manner, or to give her additional courage to face strangers, and she quailed, in spite of self-remonstrance, as she and her uncle walked up the broad, paved approach leading from the gateway of Fieldhead to its porch. She followed Mr. Helstone reluctantly through that porch into the sombre old vestibule beyond.

She holds her head high, and probably can be saucy enough. She wouldn't be a woman otherwise. Away now for your bonnet at once!"
Caroline was not naturally very confident, and her depression of spirits had not increased her courage to face strangers. She quailed as she and her uncle walked up the broad approach to Fieldhead. She followed Mr. Helstone reluctantly into the sombre old hallway.


Very sombre it was--long, vast, and dark; one latticed window lit it but dimly. The wide old chimney contained now no fire, for the present warm weather needed it not; it was filled instead with willow-boughs. The gallery on high, opposite the entrance, was seen but in outline, so shadowy became this hall towards its ceiling. Carved stags' heads, with real antlers, looked down grotesquely from the walls. This was neither a grand nor a comfortable house; within as without it was antique, rambling, and incommodious. A property of a thousand a year belonged to it, which property had descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female. There were mercantile families in the district boasting twice the income, but the Keeldars, by virtue of their antiquity, and their distinction of lords of the manor, took the precedence of all.

Very sombre it was - long, vast, and dark; one window lit it dimly. The wide old chimney contained no fire; it was filled instead with willow-boughs. The high gallery, opposite the entrance, was in shadow. Carved stags' heads, with real antlers, looked down grotesquely from the walls. This was neither a grand nor a comfortable house; it was antique, rambling, and inconvenient. A property of a thousand a year belonged to it, which had descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female. There were richer families in the district, but the Keeldars were the oldest family, and as lords of the manor, took precedence.


Mr. and Miss Helstone were ushered into a parlour. Of course, as was to be expected in such a Gothic old barrack, this parlour was lined with oak: fine, dark, glossy panels compassed the walls gloomily and grandly. Very handsome, reader, these shining brown panels are, very mellow in colouring and tasteful in effect, but--if you know what a "spring clean" is--very execrable and inhuman. Whoever, having the bowels of humanity, has seen servants scrubbing at these polished wooden walls with beeswaxed cloths on a warm May day must allow that they are "intolerable and not to be endured;" and I cannot but secretly applaud the benevolent barbarian who had painted another and larger apartment of Fieldhead--the drawing-room, to wit, formerly also an oak-room--of a delicate pinky white, thereby earning for himself the character of a Hun, but mightily enhancing the cheerfulness of that portion of his abode, and saving future housemaids a world of toil.

Mr. and Miss Helstone were ushered into a gloomy, oak-lined parlour, furnished in old style.


The brown-panelled parlour was furnished all in old style, and with real old furniture. On each side of the high mantelpiece stood two antique chairs of oak, solid as silvan thrones, and in one of these sat a lady. But if this were Miss Keeldar, she must have come of age at least some twenty years ago. She was of matronly form, and though she wore no cap, and possessed hair of quite an undimmed auburn, shading small and naturally young-looking features, she had no youthful aspect, nor apparently the wish to assume it. You could have wished her attire of a newer fashion. In a well-cut, well-made gown hers would have been no uncomely presence. It puzzled you to guess why a garment of handsome materials should be arranged in such scanty folds, and devised after such an obsolete mode. You felt disposed to set down the wearer as somewhat eccentric at once.

On each side of the high mantelpiece stood two antique chairs of oak, solid as thrones, and in one of these sat a lady. But if this were Miss Keeldar, she must have come of age at least twenty years ago. She was matronly, and her attire was plain and old-fashioned to the point of eccentricity.


This lady received the visitors with a mixture of ceremony and diffidence quite English. No middle-aged matron who was not an Englishwoman _could_ evince precisely the same manner--a manner so uncertain of herself, of her own merits, of her power to please, and yet so anxious to be proper, and, if possible, rather agreeable than otherwise. In the present instance, however, more embarrassment was shown than is usual even with diffident Englishwomen. Miss Helstone felt this, sympathized with the stranger, and knowing by experience what was good for the timid, took a seat quietly near her, and began to talk to her with a gentle ease, communicated for the moment by the presence of one less self-possessed than herself.

This lady received the visitors with a mixture of ceremony and diffidence. She seemed anxious to be proper, yet uncertain and embarrassed. Miss Helstone felt this, sympathized with the stranger, and knowing by experience what was good for the timid, took a seat quietly and began to talk to her with a gentle ease, made confident for the moment by the presence of one less self-possessed than herself.


She and this lady would, if alone, have at once got on extremely well together. The lady had the clearest voice imaginable--infinitely softer and more tuneful than could have been reasonably expected from forty years--and a form decidedly inclined to _embonpoint_. This voice Caroline liked; it atoned for the formal, if correct, accent and language. The lady would soon have discovered she liked it and her, and in ten minutes they would have been friends. But Mr. Helstone stood on the rug looking at them both, looking especially at the strange lady with his sarcastic, keen eye, that clearly expressed impatience of her chilly ceremony, and annoyance at her want of _aplomb_. His hard gaze and rasping voice discomfited the lady more and more. She tried, however, to get up little speeches about the weather, the aspect of the country, etc.; but the impracticable Mr. Helstone presently found himself somewhat deaf. Whatever she said he affected not to hear distinctly, and she was obliged to go over each elaborately-constructed nothing twice. The effort soon became too much for her. She was just rising in a perplexed flutter, nervously murmuring that she knew not what detained Miss Keeldar, that she would go and look for her, when Miss Keeldar saved her the trouble by appearing.

She and this lady would, if alone, have got on extremely well together. The lady had a soft and tuneful voice, which Caroline liked; it atoned for the formal manner. In ten minutes they would have been friends. But Mr. Helstone stood on the rug looking at the strange lady with his keen, sarcastic eye, impatient at her lack of aplomb. His hard gaze discomfited the lady. She tried to make little speeches about the weather, etc.; but Mr. Helstone found himself somewhat deaf. Whatever she said he pretended not to hear distinctly, and she was obliged to go over each elaborately-constructed nothing twice.
The effort soon became too much for her. She was just rising in a perplexed flutter, nervously murmuring that she would go and look for Miss Keeldar, when Miss Keeldar saved her the trouble by appearing.


It was to be presumed at least that she who now came in through a glass door from the garden owned that name.
There is real grace in ease of manner, and so old Helstone felt when an erect, slight girl walked up to him, retaining with her left hand her little silk apron full of flowers, and, giving him her right hand, said pleasantly, "I knew you would come to see me, though you _do_ think Mr. Yorke has made me a Jacobin. Good-morning."
"But we'll not have you a Jacobin," returned he. "No, Miss Shirley; they shall not steal the flower of my parish from me. Now that you are amongst us, you shall be my pupil in politics and religion; I'll teach you sound doctrine on both points."
"Mrs. Pryor has anticipated you," she replied, turning to the elder lady. "Mrs. Pryor, you know, was my governess, and is still my friend; and of all the high and rigid Tories she is queen; of all the stanch churchwomen she is chief. I have been well drilled both in theology and history, I assure you, Mr. Helstone."
The rector immediately bowed very low to Mrs. Pryor, and expressed himself obliged to her.

It was to be presumed at least that this was she who now came in from the garden.
There is real grace in ease of manner, and so old Helstone felt when an erect, slight girl walked up to him, holding with her left hand her little silk apron full of flowers; and, giving him her right hand, said pleasantly, "I knew you would come to see me, though you do think Mr. Yorke has made me a Jacobin. Good-morning."
"But we'll not have you a Jacobin," returned he. "No, Miss Shirley; now that you are amongst us, I'll teach you sound doctrine."
"Mrs. Pryor has anticipated you," she replied, turning to the elder lady. "Mrs. Pryor, you know, was my governess, and is still my friend. She has drilled me well in both theology and history, I assure you, Mr. Helstone."
The rector immediately bowed very low to Mrs. Pryor.


The ex-governess disclaimed skill either in political or religious controversy, explained that she thought such matters little adapted for female minds, but avowed herself in general terms the advocate of order and loyalty, and, of course, truly attached to the Establishment. She added she was ever averse to change under any circumstances, and something scarcely audible about the extreme danger of being too ready to take up new ideas closed her sentence.
"Miss Keeldar thinks as you think, I hope, madam."
"Difference of age and difference of temperament occasion difference of sentiment," was the reply. "It can scarcely be expected that the eager and young should hold the opinions of the cool and middle-aged."

The ex-governess disclaimed skill either in political or religious controversy, explained that she thought such matters little adapted for female minds, but assured him she was truly attached to the Establishment. She added that she was averse to change, and said something scarcely audible about the danger of new ideas.
"Miss Keeldar thinks as you think, I hope, madam."
"It can scarcely be expected that the eager and young should hold the opinions of the cool and middle-aged."


"Oh! oh! we are independent; we think for ourselves!" cried Mr. Helstone. "We are a little Jacobin, for anything I know--a little freethinker, in good earnest. Let us have a confession of faith on the spot."
And he took the heiress's two hands--causing her to let fall her whole cargo of flowers--and seated her by him on the sofa.
"Say your creed," he ordered.
"The Apostles' Creed?"
"Yes."

"Oh! oh! we are independent; we think for ourselves!" cried Mr. Helstone. "We are a little Jacobin, for anything I know - a little freethinker. Let us have a confession of faith on the spot."
And he took the heiress's two hands - causing her to let fall her cargo of flowers - and seated her by him on the sofa.
"Say your creed," he ordered.
"The Apostles' Creed?"
"Yes."


She said it like a child.
"Now for St. Athanasius's. That's the test!"
"Let me gather up my flowers. Here is Tartar coming; he will tread upon them."
Tartar was a rather large, strong, and fierce-looking dog, very ugly, being of a breed between mastiff and bulldog, who at this moment entered through the glass door, and posting directly to the rug, snuffed the fresh flowers scattered there. He seemed to scorn them as food; but probably thinking their velvety petals might be convenient as litter, he was turning round preparatory to depositing his tawny bulk upon them, when Miss Helstone and Miss Keeldar simultaneously stooped to the rescue.
"Thank you," said the heiress, as she again held out her little apron for Caroline to heap the blossoms into it. "Is this your daughter, Mr. Helstone?" she asked.

She said it like a child.
"Now for St. Athanasius's."
"Let me gather up my flowers. Here is Tartar coming; he will tread upon them."
Tartar was a rather large, strong, ugly and fierce-looking dog, of a breed between mastiff and bulldog, who at this moment entered through the glass door, and snuffed the fresh flowers scattered on the rug. As he was turning round preparatory to lying down upon them, Miss Helstone and Miss Keeldar simultaneously stooped to the rescue.
"Thank you," said the heiress. "Is this your daughter, Mr. Helstone?"


"My niece Caroline."
Miss Keeldar shook hands with her, and then looked at her. Caroline also looked at her hostess.

"My niece Caroline."
Miss Keeldar shook hands with her, and they looked at each other.


Shirley Keeldar (she had no Christian name but Shirley: her parents, who had wished to have a son, finding that, after eight years of marriage, Providence had granted them only a daughter, bestowed on her the same masculine family cognomen they would have bestowed on a boy, if with a boy they had been blessed)--Shirley Keeldar was no ugly heiress. She was agreeable to the eye. Her height and shape were not unlike Miss Helstone's; perhaps in stature she might have the advantage by an inch or two. She was gracefully made, and her face, too, possessed a charm as well described by the word grace as any other. It was pale naturally, but intelligent, and of varied expression. She was not a blonde, like Caroline. Clear and dark were the characteristics of her aspect as to colour. Her face and brow were clear, her eyes of the darkest gray (no green lights in them--transparent, pure, neutral gray), and her hair of the darkest brown. Her features were distinguished--by which I do not mean that they were high, bony, and Roman, being indeed rather small and slightly marked than otherwise, but only that they were, to use a few French words, "fins, gracieux, spirituels"--mobile they were and speaking; but their changes were not to be understood nor their language interpreted all at once. She examined Caroline seriously, inclining her head a little to one side, with a thoughtful air.

Shirley Keeldar (she had no Christian name but Shirley: her parents, who had wished to have a son, bestowed on her the family name they would have bestowed on a boy) - Shirley Keeldar was no ugly heiress. She was agreeable to the eye. She was perhaps an inch or two taller than Miss Helstone, and gracefully made. Her face, too, possessed a graceful charm. It was intelligent and expressive. Her eyes were of the darkest grey, and her hair of the darkest brown. Her features were distinguished - by which I do not mean that they were high, bony, and Roman, being indeed rather small and slight; but only that they were spirited and mobile. She examined Caroline seriously, her head a little on one side, with a thoughtful air.


"You see she is only a feeble chick," observed Mr. Helstone.
"She looks young--younger than I.--How old are you?" she inquired in a manner that would have been patronizing if it had not been extremely solemn and simple.
"Eighteen years and six months."
"And I am twenty-one."
She said no more. She had now placed her flowers on the table, and was busied in arranging them.
"And St. Athanasius's Creed?" urged the rector. "You believe it all, don't you?"

"You see she is only a feeble chick," observed Mr. Helstone.
"She looks younger than I. How old are you?" she inquired in a manner that would have been patronizing if it had not been solemn and simple.
"Eighteen years and six months."
"And I am twenty-one." She said no more, but busied herself in arranging her flowers.
"And St. Athanasius's Creed?" urged the rector. "You believe it all, don't you?"


"I can't remember it quite all. I will give you a nosegay, Mr. Helstone, when I have given your niece one."
She had selected a little bouquet of one brilliant and two or three delicate flowers, relieved by a spray of dark verdure. She tied it with silk from her work-box, and placed it on Caroline's lap; and then she put her hands behind her, and stood bending slightly towards her guest, still regarding her, in the attitude and with something of the aspect of a grave but gallant little cavalier. This temporary expression of face was aided by the style in which she wore her hair, parted on one temple, and brushed in a glossy sweep above the forehead, whence it fell in curls that looked natural, so free were their wavy undulations.
"Are you tired with your walk?" she inquired.
"No--not in the least. It is but a short distance--but a mile."

"I can't remember it quite all. I will give you a nosegay, Mr. Helstone, when I have given your niece one."
She selected a little bouquet of delicate flowers, relieved by a spray of dark greenery. Tying it with silk from her work-box, she placed it on Caroline's lap; and then she put her hands behind her, and stood bending slightly towards her guest, in the attitude of a grave but gallant little cavalier. This effect was aided by the style in which she wore her hair, parted on one temple, and brushed in a glossy sweep above the forehead, whence it fell freely in natural-looking curls.
"Are you tired with your walk?" she inquired.
"No; it is only a mile."


"You look pale.--Is she always so pale?" she asked, turning to the rector.
"She used to be as rosy as the reddest of your flowers."
"Why is she altered? What has made her pale? Has she been ill?"
"She tells me she wants a change."
"She ought to have one. You ought to give her one. You should send her to the sea-coast."

"You look pale. Is she always so pale?" she asked, turning to the rector.
"She used to be as rosy as the reddest of your flowers."
"Why is she altered? Has she been ill?"
"She tells me she wants a change."
"She ought to have one. You ought to give her one. You should send her to the coast."


"I will, ere summer is over. Meantime, I intend her to make acquaintance with you, if you have no objection."
"I am sure Miss Keeldar will have no objection," here observed Mrs. Pryor. "I think I may take it upon me to say that Miss Helstone's frequent presence at Fieldhead will be esteemed a favour."
"You speak my sentiments precisely, ma'am," said Shirley, "and I thank you for anticipating me.--Let me tell you," she continued, turning again to Caroline, "that you also ought to thank my governess. It is not every one she would welcome as she has welcomed you. You are distinguished more than you think. This morning, as soon as you are gone, I shall ask Mrs. Pryor's opinion of you. I am apt to rely on her judgment of character, for hitherto I have found it wondrous accurate. Already I foresee a favourable answer to my inquiries.--Do I not guess rightly, Mrs. Pryor?"

"I will, before summer is over. Meantime, I intend her to make acquaintance with you, if you have no objection."
"I am sure Miss Keeldar will have no objection," here observed Mrs. Pryor. "I think I may say that Miss Helstone's frequent presence at Fieldhead will be esteemed a favour."
"You speak my sentiments precisely, ma'am," said Shirley, "and I thank you. Let me tell you," she continued, turning again to Caroline, "that my governess does not welcome everyone as she has welcomed you. You are distinguished more than you think. As soon as you are gone, I shall ask Mrs. Pryor's opinion of you, for I have found her judgment of character wondrous accurate. Already I foresee a favourable answer. Do I not guess rightly, Mrs. Pryor?"


"My dear, you said but now you would ask my opinion when Miss Helstone was gone. I am scarcely likely to give it in her presence."
"No; and perhaps it will be long enough before I obtain it.--I am sometimes sadly tantalized, Mr. Helstone, by Mrs. Pryor's extreme caution. Her judgments ought to be correct when they come, for they are often as tardy of delivery as a Lord Chancellor's. On some people's characters I cannot get her to pronounce a sentence, entreat as I may."
Mrs. Pryor here smiled.
"Yes," said her pupil, "I know what that smile means. You are thinking of my gentleman-tenant.--Do you know Mr. Moore of the Hollow?" she asked Mr. Helstone.

"My dear, you said you would ask my opinion when Miss Helstone was gone, not in her presence."
"No; and perhaps it will be long before I obtain it. - I am sometimes sadly tantalized, Mr. Helstone, by Mrs. Pryor's extreme caution. On some people's characters I cannot get her to pronounce a sentence, entreat as I may."
Mrs. Pryor smiled.
"Yes," said her pupil, "I know what that smile means. You are thinking of Mr. Moore of the Hollow. Do you know him?" she asked Mr. Helstone.


"Ay! ay! Your tenant--so he is. You have seen a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?"

"Ay! ay! Your tenant. You have seen a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?"


"I have been obliged to see him. There was business to transact. Business! Really the word makes me conscious I am indeed no longer a girl, but quite a woman and something more. I am an esquire! Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to be my style and title. They gave me a man's name; I hold a man's position. It is enough to inspire me with a touch of manhood; and when I see such people as that stately Anglo-Belgian--that Grard Moore--before me, gravely talking to me of business, really I feel quite gentlemanlike. You must choose me for your churchwarden, Mr. Helstone, the next time you elect new ones. They ought to make me a magistrate and a captain of yeomanry.

"I have been obliged to see him. There was business to transact. Business! Really the word makes me conscious I am indeed no longer a girl. I am an esquire! Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to be my title. They gave me a man's name; I hold a man's position. And when I see such people as that stately Anglo-Belgian - that Grard Moore - before me, gravely talking to me of business, really I feel quite gentlemanlike.


Tony Lumpkin's mother was a colonel, and his aunt a justice of the peace. Why shouldn't I be?"
"With all my heart. If you choose to get up a requisition on the subject, I promise to head the list of signatures with my name. But you were speaking of Moore?"


"Ah! yes. I find it a little difficult to understand Mr. Moore, to know what to think of him, whether to like him or not. He seems a tenant of whom any proprietor might be proud--and proud of him I am, in that sense; but as a neighbour, what is he? Again and again I have entreated Mrs. Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still evades returning a direct answer. I hope you will be less oracular, Mr. Helstone, and pronounce at once. Do you like him?"
"Not at all, just now. His name is entirely blotted from my good books."

But I find it a little difficult to understand Mr. Moore, whether to like him or not. I have entreated Mrs. Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still avoids returning a direct answer. Do you like him, Mr. Helstone?"
"Not at all, just now. His name is entirely blotted from my good books."


"What is the matter? What has he done?"
"My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low voice of Caroline. She had better not have spoken just then. Having scarcely joined in the conversation before, it was not apropos to do it now. She felt this with nervous acuteness as soon as she had spoken, and coloured to the eyes.
"What are Moore's politics?" inquired Shirley.

"What is the matter? What has he done?"
"My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low voice of Caroline. At once she felt with nervous acuteness that she had better not have spoken, and coloured to the eyes.
"What are Moore's politics?" inquired Shirley.


"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector--"narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and speaking against the continuance of the war. I have no patience with him."
"The war hurts his trade. I remember he remarked that only yesterday. But what other objection have you to him?"
"That is enough."
"He looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term," pursued Shirley, "and it pleases me to think he is such."
Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant flower in her bouquet, and answered in distinct tones, "Decidedly he is." Shirley, hearing this courageous affirmation, flashed an arch, searching glance at the speaker from her deep, expressive eyes.

"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector; "narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally speaking against the continuance of the war. I have no patience with him."
"The war hurts his trade. He said that yesterday. What other objection have you to him?"
"That is enough."
"He looks the gentleman," pursued Shirley, "and it pleases me to think he is such."
Caroline, shredding a flower, answered in distinct tones, "Decidedly he is." Shirley flashed an arch, searching glance at her.


"_You_ are his friend, at any rate," she said. "You defend him in his absence."
"I am both his friend and his relative," was the prompt reply. "Robert Moore is my cousin."
"Oh, then, you can tell me all about him. Just give me a sketch of his character."

"You are his friend, at any rate," she said.
"I am both his friend and his relative," was the prompt reply. "Robert Moore is my cousin."
"Oh, then you can tell me all about him. Give me a sketch of his character."


Insuperable embarrassment seized Caroline when this demand was made. She could not, and did not, attempt to comply with it. Her silence was immediately covered by Mrs. Pryor, who proceeded to address sundry questions to Mr. Helstone regarding a family or two in the neighbourhood, with whose connections in the south she said she was acquainted. Shirley soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone's face. She did not renew her interrogations, but returning to her flowers, proceeded to choose a nosegay for the rector. She presented it to him as he took leave, and received the homage of a salute on the hand in return.
"Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she.
"Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone.--"Mrs. Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this churchwarden in perspective, this captain of yeomanry, this young squire of Briarfield, in a word. Don't let him exert himself too much; don't let him break his neck in hunting; especially, let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near the Hollow."

Embarrassment seized Caroline. She could not, and did not, attempt to comply. Her silence was immediately covered by Mrs. Pryor, who asked Mr. Helstone about various families in the neighbourhood, with whose connections she was acquainted.
Shirley soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone. She did not renew her interrogations, but proceeded to make a nosegay of flowers for the rector. She presented it to him as he left.
"Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she.
"Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone. "Mrs. Pryor, take care of this young squire of Briarfield. Don't let him exert himself too much; don't let him break his neck in hunting; especially, let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near the Hollow."


"I like a descent," said Shirley; "I like to clear it rapidly; and especially I like that romantic Hollow with all my heart."
"Romantic, with a mill in it?"
"Romantic with a mill in it. The old mill and the white cottage are each admirable in its way."
"And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar?"
"The counting-house is better than my bloom-coloured drawing-room. I adore the counting-house."
"And the trade? The cloth, the greasy wool, the polluting dyeing-vats?"
"The trade is to be thoroughly respected."

"I like a descent," said Shirley; "and I like that romantic Hollow with all my heart."
"Romantic, with a mill in it?"
"Romantic with a mill in it. The old mill and the white cottage are each admirable in their way."
"And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar?"
"I adore the counting-house."
"And the trade? The greasy wool, the polluting dyeing-vats?"
"The trade is to be thoroughly respected."


"And the tradesman is a hero? Good!"
"I am glad to hear you say so. I thought the tradesman looked heroic."
Mischief, spirit, and glee sparkled all over her face as she thus bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally enjoyed the tilt.
"Captain Keeldar, you have no mercantile blood in your veins. Why are you so fond of trade?"
"Because I am a mill-owner, of course. Half my income comes from the works in that Hollow."
"Don't enter into partnership--that's all."

"And the tradesman is a hero? Good!"
"I am glad to hear you say so. I thought the tradesman looked heroic." Mischief and glee sparkled all over her face as she bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally enjoyed the contest.
"Captain Keeldar, why are you so fond of trade?"
"Because I am a mill-owner, of course. Half my income comes from the works in that Hollow."
"Don't enter into partnership - that's all."


"You've put it into my head! you've put it into my head!" she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh. "It will never get out. Thank you." And waving her hand, white as a lily and fine as a fairy's, she vanished within the porch, while the rector and his niece passed out through the arched gateway.

"You've put it into my head!" she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh. "It will never get out. Thank you." And waving her white hand, she vanished within the porch, while the rector and his niece passed out through the arched gateway.


The evening was pitch dark: star and moon were quenched in gray rain-clouds--gray they would have been by day; by night they looked sable. Malone was not a man given to close observation of nature; her changes passed, for the most part, unnoticed by him. He could walk miles on the most varying April day and never see the beautiful dallying of earth and heaven--never mark when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops, making them smile clear in green light, or when a shower wept over them, hiding their crests with the low-hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. He did not, therefore, care to contrast the sky as it now appeared--a muffled, streaming vault, all black, save where, towards the east, the furnaces of Stilbro' ironworks threw a tremulous lurid shimmer on the horizon--with the same sky on an unclouded frosty night. He did not trouble himself to ask where the constellations and the planets were gone, or to regret the "black-blue" serenity of the air-ocean which those white islets stud, and which another ocean, of heavier and denser element, now rolled below and concealed. He just doggedly pursued his way, leaning a little forward as he walked, and wearing his hat on the back of his head, as his Irish manner was. "Tramp, tramp," he went along the causeway, where the road boasted the privilege of such an accommodation; "splash, splash," through the mire-filled cart ruts, where the flags were exchanged for soft mud. He looked but for certain landmarks--the spire of Briarfield Church; farther on, the lights of Redhouse. This was an inn; and when he reached it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revellers on an oaken settle, had nearly drawn aside the curate from his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler of whisky-and-water.

The evening was pitch dark: star and moon were quenched in black rain-clouds. Malone was not an observer of nature; he could walk miles and never notice when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops, or when a shower wept over them. He did not, therefore, observe the black vault of the sky, with the furnaces of Stilbro' ironworks throwing a lurid shimmer on the eastern horizon. He just tramped doggedly along the causeway, splashing through the mire-filled cart ruts. He looked only for certain landmarks - the spire of Briarfield Church, and the lights of Redhouse Inn.
When he reached the inn, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revellers on an oak settle, nearly drew the curate from his course. He thought longingly of whisky-and-water


In a strange place he would instantly have realized the dream; but the company assembled in that kitchen were Mr. Helstone's own parishioners; they all knew him. He sighed, and passed on.
The highroad was now to be quitted, as the remaining distance to Hollow's Mill might be considerably reduced by a short cut across fields. These fields were level and monotonous. Malone took a direct course through them, jumping hedge and wall. He passed but one building here, and that seemed large and hall-like, though irregular. You could see a high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick, lofty stack of chimneys. There were some trees behind it. It was dark; not a candle shone from any window. It was absolutely still; the rain running from the eaves, and the rather wild but very low whistle of the wind round the chimneys and through the boughs were the sole sounds in its neighbourhood.

; but the company in the inn were Mr. Helstone's parishioners; they all knew him. He sighed, and passed on.
He now left the high road to take a short cut to Hollow's Mill across level fields, jumping hedge and wall. He passed only one building here; large and hall-like, though irregular. You could see a high gable, then a long front, and a lofty stack of chimneys. It was dark; not a candle shone from any window. It was absolutely still. The rain and the low whistle of the wind were the sole sounds in its neighbourhood.


This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, declined in a rapid descent. Evidently a vale lay below, through which you could hear the water run. One light glimmered in the depth. For that beacon Malone steered.
He came to a little white house--you could see it was white even through this dense darkness--and knocked at the door. A fresh-faced servant opened it. By the candle she held was revealed a narrow passage, terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors covered with crimson baize, a strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-coloured walls and white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.
"Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, but he is not in."

Beyond this building, the fields descended rapidly. You could hear the water run in a vale below: one light glimmered in the depth. Malone steered towards it.
He came to a little white house - white even through this dense darkness - and knocked at the door. A servant opened it. By her candle he saw a passage, leading to two doors and a narrow stair with a strip of crimson carpet. The little interior looked clean and fresh.
"Is Mr. Moore in?"
"No, sir, he is


"Not in! Where is he then?"
"At the mill--in the counting-house."
Here one of the crimson doors opened.
"Are the wagons come, Sarah?" asked a female voice, and a female head at the same time was apparent. It might not be the head of a goddess--indeed a screw of curl-paper on each side the temples quite forbade that supposition--but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; yet Malone seemed to take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully back into the rain at the view thereof, and saying, "I'll go to him," hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across an obscure yard, towards a huge black mill.

 at the mill - in the counting-house."
Here one of the doors opened.
"Are the wagons come, Sarah?" asked a female voice, and a female head appeared. It might not be the head of a goddess - indeed, screws of curl-paper quite forbade that idea - but neither was it the head of a Gorgon, as Malone seemed to think. He shrank bashfully back into the rain, and saying, "I'll go to him," hurried down a short lane towards a huge black mill.


The work-hours were over; the "hands" were gone. The machinery was at rest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round it. Somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another chink of light; he knocked at another door, using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelah, with which he beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.
"Is it Joe Scott? What news of the wagons, Joe?"
"No; it's myself. Mr. Helstone would send me."

The work-hours were over; the "hands", or workers, were gone. The machinery was at rest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round it. Somewhere in its great sooty flank he found a chink of light; he knocked at another door, using his shillelagh to beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned.
"Is it Joe Scott? What news of the wagons, Joe?"
"No; it's myself. Mr. Helstone sent me."


"Oh! Mr. Malone." The voice in uttering this name had the slightest possible cadence of disappointment. After a moment's pause it continued, politely but a little formally,--
"I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely Mr. Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble you so far. There was no necessity--I told him so--and on such a night; but walk forwards."
Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable, Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room within--very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which, for the last hour, had been striving to penetrate the double darkness of night and fog; but except for its excellent fire, and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustre burning on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was carpetless; the three or four stiff-backed, green-painted chairs seemed once to have furnished the kitchen of some farm-house; a desk of strong, solid formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed sheets on the stone-coloured walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designs of machinery, etc., completed the furniture of the place.
Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone, who, when he had removed and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost within the bars of the red grate.

"Oh! Mr. Malone." The voice had the slightest possible tone of disappointment. After a moment's pause it continued, politely but formally:
"I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret Mr. Helstone should have troubled you. There was no need - I told him so."
Malone followed the speaker into a light room - very bright indeed it seemed, after the darkness; but except for its excellent fire, and an elegant lamp on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was carpetless; the stiff-backed chairs might have come from some farm-house. The only other furnishings were a desk, the table, and some framed plans for buildings and machinery.
Malone hung up his wet coat and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost against the grate.


"Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore; and all snug to yourself."
"Yes, but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would prefer stepping into the house."
"Oh no! The ladies are best alone, I never was a lady's man. You don't mistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you, Mr. Moore?"
"Sweeting! Which of them is that? The gentleman in the chocolate overcoat, or the little gentleman?"
"The little one--he of Nunnely; the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!"

"Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore; all snug to yourself."
"Yes, but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would prefer stepping into the house."
"Oh, no! I never was a lady's man, not like my friend Sweeting."
"Sweeting! Which one is that?" asked Moore. "The one with the chocolate overcoat, or the little gentleman?"
"The little one - the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!"


"Better be generally in love with all than specially with one, I should think, in that quarter."
"But he is specially in love with one besides, for when I and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy, he named--which do you think?"
With a queer, quiet smile Mr. Moore replied, "Dora, of course, or Harriet."
"Ha! ha! you've an excellent guess. But what made you hit on those two?"
"Because they are the tallest, the handsomest, and Dora, at least, is the stoutest; and as your friend Mr. Sweeting is but a little slight figure, I concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such cases, he preferred his contrast."
"You are right; Dora it is. But he has no chance, has he, Moore?"

"Better be in love with all than specially with one, I should think, in that family."
"But he is specially in love with one - which one do you think?"
With a quiet smile Mr. Moore replied, "Dora, of course."
"You are right; Dora it is. But he has no chance, has he, Moore?"


"What has Mr. Sweeting besides his curacy?"
This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly. He laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.
"What has Sweeting? Why, David has his harp, or flute, which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck watch; ditto, ring; ditto, eyeglass. That's what he has."
"How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns only?"

"What has Mr. Sweeting besides his curacy?"
This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly. He laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.
"What has Sweeting? Why, David has his harp, or rather, his flute. He has a watch, ring, and eyeglass. That's what he has."
"How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns?"


"Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see him. I'll roast him for his presumption. But no doubt he expects old Christopher Sykes would do something handsome. He is rich, is he not? They live in a large house."
"Sykes carries on an extensive concern."
"Therefore he must be wealthy, eh?"

"Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see him. But old Christopher Sykes is rich, is he not?"
"Sykes has an extensive business.


"Therefore he must have plenty to do with his wealth, and in these times would be about as likely to think of drawing money from the business to give dowries to his daughters as I should be to dream of pulling down the cottage there, and constructing on its ruins a house as large as Fieldhead."
"Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day?"
"No. Perhaps that I _was_ about to effect some such change. Your Briarfield gossips are capable of saying that or sillier things."
"That you were going to take Fieldhead on a lease (I thought it looked a dismal place, by-the-bye, to-night, as I passed it), and that it was your intention to settle a Miss Sykes there as mistress--to be married, in short, ha! ha! Now, which is it? Dora, I am sure. You said she was the handsomest."

But he would be about as likely to take money from the business to give dowries to his daughters as I should be to pull down the cottage there, and build a house as large as Fieldhead."
"Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day? That you were going to rent Fieldhead (I thought it looked dismal tonight, as I passed it), and that you intended to settle a Miss Sykes there as your wife, ha! ha! Now, which is it?"


"I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be married since I came to Briarfield. They have assigned me every marriageable single woman by turns in the district. Now it was the two Misses Wynns--first the dark, then the light one; now the red-haired Miss Armitage; then the mature Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders all the tribe of the Misses Sykes. On what grounds this gossip rests God knows. I visit nowhere; I seek female society about as assiduously as you do, Mr. Malone. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson a call in their counting-house, where our discussions run on other topics than matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other things than courtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth we can't sell, the hands we can't employ, the mills we can't run, the perverse course of events generally, which we cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well at present, to the tolerably complete exclusion of such figments as love-making, etc."

"I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be married since I came to Briarfield. They have assigned me every single woman in the district by turns. First it was the two Misses Wynne; then Miss Armitage; then Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders all the tribe of the Misses Sykes - why, God knows. I visit nowhere; I do not seek female company. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to call on Sykes or Pearson in their counting-houses, where we discuss not courtship, but the cloth we can't sell, the hands we can't employ, and the mills we can't run."


"I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hate more than another, it is that of marriage--I mean marriage in the vulgar weak sense, as a mere matter of sentiment--two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their indigence by some fantastic tie of feeling. Humbug! But an advantageous connection, such as can be formed in consonance with dignity of views and permanency of solid interests, is not so bad--eh?"
"No," responded Moore, in an absent manner. The subject seemed to have no interest for him; he did not pursue it. After sitting for some time gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.
"Hark!" said he. "Did you hear wheels?"

"I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hate, it is that of a sentimental marriage - two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their poverty by some fantastic tie of feeling. Humbug! But an advantageous connection is not so bad - eh?"
"No," responded Moore absently. The subject seemed to have no interest for him. After gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.
"Hark!" said he. "Did you hear wheels?"


Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened. He soon closed it. "It is only the sound of the wind rising," he remarked, "and the rivulet a little swollen, rushing down the hollow. I expected those wagons at six; it is near nine now."
"Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this new machinery will bring you into danger?" inquired Malone. "Helstone seems to think it will."

He went to open the window, and listened. "It is only the wind rising, and the stream rushing. I expected those wagons at six; it is near nine now."
"Seriously, do you suppose that putting in this new machinery will bring you into danger?" inquired Malone. "Helstone seems to think it will."


"I only wish the machines--the frames--were safe here, and lodged within the walls of this mill. Once put up, I defy the frame-breakers. Let them only pay me a visit and take the consequences. My mill is my castle."
"One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone, in a profound vein of reflection. "I almost wish a party would call upon you to-night; but the road seemed extremely quiet as I came along. I saw nothing astir."
"You came by the Redhouse?"
"Yes."

"I only wish the machines - the frames - were safe here, within the walls of this mill. Once in place, I defy the frame-breakers. My mill is my castle."
"One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone. "I almost wish some would call upon you tonight; but the road seemed extremely quiet. I saw nothing astir."
"You came by the Redhouse?"
"Yes."


"There would be nothing on that road. It is in the direction of Stilbro' the risk lies."
"And you think there is risk?"
"What these fellows have done to others they may do to me. There is only this difference: most of the manufacturers seem paralyzed when they are attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his dressing-shop was set on fire and burned to the ground, when the cloth was torn from his tenters and left in shreds in the field, took no steps to discover or punish the miscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under the jaws of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade, my mill, and my machinery."
"Helstone says these three are your gods; that the 'Orders in Council' are with you another name for the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and the war-party his legions."

"There would be nothing on that road. It is in the direction of Stilbro' the risk lies."
"And you think there is risk?"
"What these fellows have done to others they may do to me. But most of the manufacturers seem paralysed when they are attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his place was burned to the ground, took no steps to discover or punish the miscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit to a ferret. Now I should stand by my trade, my mill, and my machinery."


"Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me. They stand in my way. I cannot get on. I cannot execute my plans because of them. I see myself baffled at every turn by their untoward effects."
"But you are rich and thriving, Moore?"
"I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. You should step into my warehouse yonder, and observe how it is piled to the roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition. America used to be their market, but the Orders in Council have cut that off."

"You are rich, Moore?"
"I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. My warehouse is piled to the roof, since the Orders in Council cut off the American market.


Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a conversation of this sort. He began to knock the heels of his boots together, and to yawn.
"And then to think," continued Mr. Moore who seemed too much taken up with the current of his own thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest's _ennui_--"to think that these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield will keep pestering one about being married! As if there was nothing to be done in life but to 'pay attention,' as they say, to some young lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to start on a bridal tour, and then to run through a round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be 'having a family.' Oh, que le diable emporte!" He broke off the aspiration into which he was launching with a certain energy, and added, more calmly, "I believe women talk and think only of these things, and they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied."
"Of course--of course," assented Malone; "but never mind them." And he whistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of something. This time Moore caught and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstrations.

And to think that these ridiculous gossips will keep pestering one about being married! As if there was nothing to be done in life but to court some young lady, and go visiting. Oh, que le diable emporte!" He broke off and added, more calmly, "I believe women think only of these things, and they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied."
"Of course," assented Malone; "but never mind them." He looked impatiently round, as if something was lacking.


"Mr. Malone," said he, "you must require refreshment after your wet walk. I forget hospitality."
"Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.
"It is my fancy," said he, "to have every convenience within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton chop?"

"Mr. Malone," said Moore, "you must require refreshment after your wet walk."
"Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore opened a cupboard.
"I keep food and drink here, for I often spend the evening here alone, and sleep in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton chop?"


"Try me. I've done it hundreds of times at college."
"There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly. You know the secret of keeping the juices in?"
"Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please."
The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookery with vigour. The manufacturer placed on the table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copper kettle--still from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard--filled it with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.

"Try me."
"There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly."
"Never fear. Hand me a knife and fork, please."
The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookery with vigour. On the table Moore placed plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He filled a small copper kettle from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.


"Is it you, Sarah?"
"Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"
"No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."
He returned.

"Is it you, Sarah?"
"Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"
"No; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."


"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting, a man--whew! how the fat spits! it has burnt my hand--destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I, Moore--there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy--you and I will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry."
"I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"
"The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"

"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly, as he turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting. Now you and I, Moore - there's a fine chop for you, full of gravy - you and I will have no grey mares in our stables when we marry."
"I never think about it. If the grey mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"
"The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"


"There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions return they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames intact."
Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed aloud at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance of this same host. I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table.

"There is a glassful. When Joe Scott and his assistants return they shall have a share, provided they bring the frames intact."
Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before. I shall try to sketch him as he sits at table.


He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather a strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, sallow, very foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. It appears that he spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange it with more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, that they have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in their chiselling; nor does a spectator become aware of this advantage till he has examined him well, for an anxious countenance and a hollow, somewhat haggard, outline of face disturb the idea of beauty with one of care. His eyes are large, and grave, and gray; their expression is intent and meditative, rather searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial. When he parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agreeable--not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of a certain sedate charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of a considerate, perhaps a kind nature, of feelings that may wear well at home--patient, forbearing, possibly faithful feelings. He is still young--not more than thirty; his stature is tall, his figure slender. His manner of speaking displeases. He has an outlandish accent, which, notwithstanding a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction, grates on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire, ear.

You would probably call him, at first view, a strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, and foreign-looking, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, clear and regular; but they hold an anxious expression and have a somewhat haggard appearance. His eyes are large, and grave, and grey; they are searching and thoughtful rather than genial. When he smiles, his face is agreeable - not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but it suggests a considerate nature, patient and forbearing. He is not more than thirty; his figure is tall and slender. He has an outlandish accent, which grates on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire, ear.


Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely that. He came of a foreign ancestry by the mother's side, and was himself born and partly reared on a foreign soil. A hybrid in nature, it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling on many points--patriotism for one; it is likely that he was unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes and customs; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate his individual person from any community amidst which his lot might temporarily happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to be his best wisdom to push the interests of Robert Grard Moore, to the exclusion of philanthropic consideration for general interests, with which he regarded the said Grard Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Trade was Mr. Moore's hereditary calling: the Grards of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy merchants; but the uncertainties, the involvements, of business had come upon them; disastrous speculations had loosened by degrees the foundations of their credit. The house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had rushed down a total ruin. In its fall was involved the English and Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp house, and of which one of the partners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore, had married Hortense Grard, with the prospect of his bride inheriting her father Constantine Grard's share in the business. She inherited, as we have seen, but his share in the liabilities of the firm; and these liabilities, though duly set aside by a composition with creditors, some said her son Robert accepted, in his turn, as a legacy, and that he aspired one day to discharge them, and to rebuild the fallen house of Grard and Moore on a scale at least equal to its former greatness. It was even supposed that he took by-past circumstances much to heart; and if a childhood passed at the side of a saturnine mother, under foreboding of coming evil, and a manhood drenched and blighted by the pitiless descent of the storm, could painfully impress the mind, _his_ probably was impressed in no golden characters.

Mr. Moore, indeed, was scarcely half a Briton. He came of foreign ancestry by the mother's side, and had grown up on foreign soil. He cared little for patriotism; he did not attach himself to political parties, to sects, or even to customs. He had a tendency to withdraw from any community he happened to be living in, and considered the interests of Robert Grard Moore to be more relevant to him than any general philanthropy.
Trade was Mr. Moore's calling: the Grards of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy, but the uncertainties of business had loosened the foundations of their credit. The house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had fallen, a total ruin. In its fall was involved the Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp house: one of the Antwerp partners, Robert Moore, had married Hortense Grard, who was to inherit her father's share in the business. She inherited only debts - which her son Robert accepted, in his turn, as a legacy, saying that one day he would discharge them, and rebuild the fallen house of Grard and Moore.


If, however, he had a great end of restoration in view, it was not in his power to employ great means for its attainment. He was obliged to be content with the day of small things. When he came to Yorkshire, he--whose ancestors had owned warehouses in this seaport, and factories in that inland town, had possessed their town-house and their country-seat--saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill in an out-of-the-way nook of an out-of-the-way district; to take a cottage adjoining it for his residence, and to add to his possessions, as pasture for his horse, and space for his cloth-tenters, a few acres of the steep, rugged land that lined the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled. All this he held at a somewhat high rent (for these war times were hard, and everything was dear) of the trustees of the Fieldhead estate, then the property of a minor.

If, however, he had a great aim of restoration, he had no money to attain it. When he came to Yorkshire, he - whose ancestors had owned warehouses and factories, a town-house and a country-seat - saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill in an out-of-the-way district; and to take an adjoining cottage to live in, along with a few acres of the steep, rugged land that lined the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled. All this he held at a somewhat high rent (for times were hard, and everything was dear) from the Fieldhead estate.


At the time this history commences, Robert Moore had lived but two years in the district, during which period he had at least proved himself possessed of the quality of activity. The dingy cottage was converted into a neat, tasteful residence. Of part of the rough land he had made garden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with Flemish, exactness and care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, and fitted up with old machinery, now become inefficient and out of date, he had from the first evinced the strongest contempt for all its arrangements and appointments. His aim had been to effect a radical reform, which he had executed as fast as his very limited capital would allow; and the narrowness of that capital, and consequent check on his progress, was a restraint which galled his spirit sorely. Moore ever wanted to push on. "Forward" was the device stamped upon his soul; but poverty curbed him. Sometimes (figuratively) he foamed at the mouth when the reins were drawn very tight.

At the time this history commences, Robert Moore had lived two years in the district. The dingy cottage had been converted into a neat, tasteful residence: part of the rough land had been made into a garden, which he cultivated with singular care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, and fitted up with old machinery, inefficient and out of date, he had from the first held its arrangements in contempt. He aimed for a radical reform, which he had carried out as fast as his limited funds would allow; and the shortage of those funds, and of progress, was a restraint which galled him sorely. Moore ever wanted to push on.


In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected that he would deliberate much as to whether his advance was or was not prejudicial to others. Not being a native, nor for any length of time a resident of the neighbourhood, he did not sufficiently care when the new inventions threw the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself where those to whom he no longer paid weekly wages found daily bread; and in this negligence he only resembled thousands besides, on whom the starving poor of Yorkshire seemed to have a closer claim.
The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in British history, and especially in the history of the northern provinces. War was then at its height. Europe was all involved therein. England, if not weary, was worn with long resistance--yes, and half her people were weary too, and cried out for peace on any terms. National honour was become a mere empty name, of no value in the eyes of many, because their sight was dim with famine; and for a morsel of meat they would have sold their birthright.

Not being a native, he did not sufficiently care when the new inventions threw the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself where the jobless found daily bread; and in this negligence he only resembled thousands of others.
The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in British history. War with Napoleon was at its height: all Europe was involved. England was worn with long resistance, and her weary people cried out for peace on any terms. National honour was become a mere empty name, of no value in the eyes of many, because their sight was dim with famine; and for a morsel of meat they would have sold their birthright.


The "Orders in Council," provoked by Napoleon's Milan and Berlin decrees, and forbidding neutral powers to trade with France, had, by offending America, cut off the principal market of the Yorkshire woollen trade, and brought it consequently to the verge of ruin. Minor foreign markets were glutted, and would receive no more. The Brazils, Portugal, Sicily, were all overstocked by nearly two years' consumption. At this crisis certain inventions in machinery were introduced into the staple manufactures of the north, which, greatly reducing the number of hands necessary to be employed, threw thousands out of work, and left them without legitimate means of sustaining life. A bad harvest supervened. Distress reached its climax. Endurance, overgoaded, stretched the hand of fraternity to sedition. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving under the hills of the northern counties. But, as is usual in such cases, nobody took much notice. When a food-riot broke out in a manufacturing town, when a gig-mill was burnt to the ground, or a manufacturer's house was attacked, the furniture thrown into the streets, and the family forced to flee for their lives, some local measures were or were not taken by the local magistracy.

The "Orders in Council," forbidding neutral powers to trade with France, had offended America, the principal market of the Yorkshire woollen trade, and brought it consequently to the verge of ruin. Minor foreign markets were glutted, and would receive no more wool.
At this crisis, inventions in machinery were introduced into the northern factories, which, greatly reducing the number of hands needed, threw thousands out of work, and left them penniless. A bad harvest supervened. Distress reached its climax. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving under the hills of the northern counties.
But, as is usual in such cases, nobody took much notice. When a food-riot broke out, when a mill was burnt down, or a manufacturer's house was attacked, and the family forced to flee, few measures were taken.


A ringleader was detected, or more frequently suffered to elude detection; newspaper paragraphs were written on the subject, and there the thing stopped. As to the sufferers, whose sole inheritance was labour, and who had lost that inheritance--who could not get work, and consequently could not get wages, and consequently could not get bread--they were left to suffer on, perhaps inevitably left. It would not do to stop the progress of invention, to damage science by discouraging its improvements; the war could not be terminated; efficient relief could not be raised. There was no help then; so the unemployed underwent their destiny--ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction.

A ringleader was detected, or more frequently escaped detection; newspaper paragraphs were written, and there the thing stopped.
As to the sufferers, who could not get work, and consequently could not buy food - they were left to suffer on. It would not do to stop the progress of invention. There was no help; so the unemployed ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction.


Misery generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines which they believed took their bread from them; they hated the buildings which contained those machines; they hated the manufacturers who owned those buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, with which we have at present to do, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable; Grard Moore, in his double character of semi-foreigner and thorough-going progressist, the man most abominated. And it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's temperament than otherwise to be generally hated, especially when he believed the thing for which he was hated a right and an expedient thing; and it was with a sense of warlike excitement he, on this night, sat in his counting-house waiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons. Malone's coming and company were, it may be, most unwelcome to him. He would have preferred sitting alone; for he liked a silent, sombre, unsafe solitude. His watchman's musket would have been company enough for him; the full-flowing beck in the den would have delivered continuously the discourse most genial to his ear.
* * * * *
With the queerest look in the world had the manufacturer for some ten minutes been watching the Irish curate, as the latter made free with the punch, when suddenly that steady gray eye changed, as if another vision came between it and Malone. Moore raised his hand.

Misery generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines; they hated the buildings which contained those machines; they hated the manufacturers who owned those buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable; Grard Moore, as a semi-foreigner and progressive mill-owner, was the man most abominated.
And it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's temperament to be hated, especially when he believed the thing for which he was hated to be right. It was with a sense of warlike excitement that he sat in his counting-house on this night, awaiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons. Malone's presence was unwelcome to him. He would have preferred sitting alone, with his musket for company.
For some ten minutes, Moore had been watching the Irish curate make free with the punch, when suddenly his steady grey eye changed. He raised his hand.


"Chut!" he said in his French fashion, as Malone made a noise with his glass. He listened a moment, then rose, put his hat on, and went out at the counting-house door.
The night was still, dark, and stagnant: the water yet rushed on full and fast; its flow almost seemed a flood in the utter silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another sound, very distant but yet dissimilar, broken and rugged--in short, a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road. He returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with which he walked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. The big wagons were coming on; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing in the mud and water. Moore hailed them.
"Hey, Joe Scott! Is all right?"

"Chut!" he said in his French fashion. He listened a moment, then rose and went out.
The night was still, dark, and stagnant: the water rushed on full and fast, sounding like a flood in the silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another sound, very distant, broken and rugged - a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road. He lit a lantern, walked down the mill-yard, and opened the gates. The wagons were coming; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing in the mud and water. Moore hailed them.
"Hey, Joe Scott! Is all right?"


Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance to hear the inquiry. He did not answer it.
"Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore, when the elephant-like leader's nose almost touched his.
Some one jumped out from the foremost wagon into the road; a voice cried aloud, "Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We've smashed 'em."
And there was a run. The wagons stood still; they were now deserted.

Probably Joe Scott was still too distant to hear. He did not answer.
"Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore.
Some one jumped out from the first wagon into the road; a voice cried aloud, "Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We've smashed 'em."
And there was a run. The wagons stood deserted.


"Joe Scott!" No Joe Scott answered. "Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!" No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern and looked into the vehicles. There was neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.

"Joe Scott!" No Joe Scott answered. "Murgatroyd! Sykes!" No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern and looked into the vehicles. They held neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.


Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shears which to-night had been expected. Speculations most important to his interests depended on the results to be wrought by them. Where were they?
The words "we've smashed 'em" rang in his ears. How did the catastrophe affect him? By the light of the lantern he held were his features visible, relaxing to a singular smile--the smile the man of determined spirit wears when he reaches a juncture in his life where this determined spirit is to feel a demand on its strength, when the strain is to be made, and the faculty must bear or break. Yet he remained silent, and even motionless; for at the instant he neither knew what to say nor what to do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms folded, gazing down and reflecting.

Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his money on the purchase of these frames. Where were they?
The words "we've smashed 'em" rang in his ears. His features relaxed into a singular smile - the smile a determined man wears when his spirit feels a demand on its strength, which it must bear or break. Yet he remained silent, and motionless; for he knew not what to say nor do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms folded, reflecting.


An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him presently look up. His eye in the moment caught the gleam of something white attached to a part of the harness. Examined by the light of the lantern this proved to be a folded paper--a billet. It bore no address without; within was the superscription:--
"To the Divil of Hollow's Miln."
We will not copy the rest of the orthography, which was very peculiar, but translate it into legible English. It ran thus:--

An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him look up. His eye caught the gleam of something white attached to the harness. This proved to be a folded note. It read:
"To the Divil of Hollow's Miln.


"Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives and children to go home to when they have done this deed. If you get new machines, or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall hear from us again. Beware!"
"Hear from you again? Yes, I'll hear from you again, and you shall hear from me. I'll speak to you directly. On Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment."

"Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives and children. If you get new machines, you shall hear from us again. Beware!"
"Hear from you again? Yes, I'll hear from you again, and you shall hear from me. On Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment."