There was something so diffident and downcast in the air and tone with which she said this, any one might perceive that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession had left her. Mr. Moore, probably, remembered how she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle ardour and hopeful confidence. He must have seen how the check of this morning had operated. Here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with effect, if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to practise that system in broad daylight, in his mill-yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a quiet parlour, disengaged, at the hour of eventide. Fanny lit the candles, which before had stood unlit on the table, brought writing materials, and left the room. Caroline was about to follow her. Moore, to act consistently, should have let her go; whereas he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his hand, gently kept her back. He did not ask her to stay, but he would not let her go.

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


"Shall I tell my uncle you are here?" asked she, still in the same subdued voice.

"Shall I tell my uncle you are here?" asked she, in the same subdued voice.


"No; I can say to you all I had to say to him. You will be my messenger?"


"Then you may just inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames; that he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and Pearson's dressing-shop, and that I hope to have him in custody to-morrow. You can remember that?"

"Then you may inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames; and that I hope to have him in custody tomorrow. You can remember that?"


"Oh yes!" These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and as she said them she shook her head slightly and sighed. "Will you prosecute him?"

"Oh yes!" These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and she sighed. "Will you prosecute him?"


"Because it will set all the neighbourhood against you more than ever."

It will set the neighbourhood against you more than ever."


"That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief."

"That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a scoundrel."


"But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. It is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and hit their mark 'at last.'"

"But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. Some of them boast that they can keep a stone in their pocket for years, before they hurl it and hit their mark."


"A most pithy vaunt," said he--"one that redounds vastly to the credit of your dear Yorkshire friends. But don't fear for me, Lina. I am on my guard against these lamb-like compatriots of yours. Don't make yourself uneasy about me."

"Don't fear for me, Lina. I am on my guard. Don't make yourself uneasy about me."


"How can I help it? You are my cousin. If anything happened----" She stopped.

"How can I help it? You are my cousin. If anything happened-" She stopped.


"Nothing will happen, Lina. To speak in your own language, there is a Providence above all--is there not?"


"And if prayers have efficacy, yours will benefit me. You pray for me sometimes?"

- and if prayers work, yours will benefit me. You pray for me sometimes?"


"Not _sometimes_, Robert. You, and Louis, and Hortense are _always_ remembered."

"You, Louis, and Hortense are always remembered in my prayers."


"So I have often imagined. It has occurred to me when, weary and vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a heathen, that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night. I don't suppose such vicarial piety will avail much, but the petitions come out of a sincere breast, from innocent lips. They should be acceptable as Abel's offering; and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them."

"So I have often imagined," he said. "When, weary and vexed, I have gone to bed without praying, it has occurred to me that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night. I hope your prayers for me are acceptable to God; they doubtless would be, if I deserved them."


"Annihilate that doubt. It is groundless."


"When a man has been brought up only to make money, and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea with anything divine; and very strange it seems that a good, pure heart should take him in and harbour him, as if he had any claim to that sort of nest. If I could guide that benignant heart, I believe I should counsel it to exclude one who does not profess to have any higher aim in life than that of patching up his broken fortune, and wiping clean from his _bourgeois_ scutcheon the foul stain of bankruptcy."

"When a man has been brought up only to make money, and scarcely breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter his name in a prayer; and very strange it seems that a good, pure heart should take him in and harbour him. If I could guide that heart, I believe I should counsel it to exclude one who has no higher aim in life than that of patching up his broken fortune."


The hint, though conveyed thus tenderly and modestly (as Caroline thought), was felt keenly and comprehended clearly.

The hint, though conveyed tenderly, was understood and felt keenly by Caroline.


"Indeed, I only think--or I _will only_ think--of you as my cousin," was the quick answer. "I am beginning to understand things better than I did, Robert, when you first came to England--better than I did a week, a day ago. I know it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won't do for you to be romantic; but in future you must not misunderstand me if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not?"

"Indeed, I only think - or I will only think - of you as my cousin," was the quick answer. "I am beginning to understand things better than I did, Robert. I know it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won't do for you to be romantic; but you must not misunderstand me if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not?"


"Oh! you are different now. At present I dare speak to you."


"Yet I am the same, except that I have left the tradesman behind me in the Hollow. Your kinsman alone stands before you."

"Yet I am the same, except that I have left the tradesman behind me, and am your kinsman now.


Here the company was heard rising in the other room. The door was opened; the pony-carriage was ordered; shawls and bonnets were demanded; Mr. Helstone called for his niece.

Here the company was heard rising in the other room. The carriage was ordered; shawls and bonnets were demanded.


"Yes, you must go, or they will come in and find us here; and I, rather than meet all that host in the passage, will take my departure through the window. Luckily it opens like a door. One minute only--put down the candle an instant--good-night. I kiss you because we are cousins, and, being cousins, one--two--three kisses are allowable. Caroline, good-night."

"Yes, you must, or they will come in and find us here; and rather than meet all that host in the passage, I will leave through the French window. One minute only - put down the candle - good-night. I kiss you because we are cousins, and so one - two - three kisses are allowable. Caroline, good-night."


The next day Moore had risen before the sun, and had taken a ride to Whinbury and back ere his sister had made the caf au lait or cut the tartines for his breakfast. What business he transacted there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions: it was not her wont to comment on his movements, nor his to render an account of them. The secrets of business--complicated and often dismal mysteries--were buried in his breast, and never came out of their sepulchre save now and then to scare Joe Scott, or give a start to some foreign correspondent. Indeed, a general habit of reserve on whatever was important seemed bred in his mercantile blood.

The next day Moore had risen before the sun, and had ridden to Whinbury and back before his sister had made his coffee and breakfast. What business he did there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions.


Breakfast over, he went to his counting-house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters and the daily papers; Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the documents, and glanced them over. They were all short, but not, it seemed, sweet--probably rather sour, on the contrary, for as Moore laid down the last, his nostrils emitted a derisive and defiant snuff, and though he burst into no soliloquy, there was a glance in his eye which seemed to invoke the devil, and lay charges on him to sweep the whole concern to Gehenna. However, having chosen a pen and stripped away the feathered top in a brief spasm of finger-fury (only finger-fury--his face was placid), he dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went out and walked through the mill. On coming back he sat down to read his newspaper.

Breakfast over, he went to his counting-house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters; Moore sat down and glanced them over. They were all short, but not, it seemed, sweet - probably rather sour, on the contrary; for as Moore laid down the last, he sniffed derisively, and his eye glittered in anger. He dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went to walk through the mill. On coming back he sat down to read his newspaper.


The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting; he more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire; he occasionally turned his head towards the window; he looked at intervals at his watch; in short, his mind appeared preoccupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather--for it was a fine and mild morning for the season--and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting-house stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine entered freely; but the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only an occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable from the gaunt mill-chimney.

The contents seemed not to absorb him; he turned his head towards the window; he looked at his watch, and appeared preoccupied. It was a fine, mild morning; perhaps he wished to be out in the fields. The door of his counting-house stood wide open, and the breeze and sunshine entered freely.


A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered the words "He's comed, sir," and vanished.

A dark-blue apparition - Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat - appeared at the open door, uttered the words "He's comed, sir," and vanished.


Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and gray worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, and desired to take a seat, which he did, making the remark, as he removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown, that it was "raight dahn warm for Febewerry." Mr. Moore assented--at least he uttered some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully deposited in the corner beside him an official-looking staff which he bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way of appearing at his ease.

A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and grey woollen stockings, entered, was received with a nod, and told to take a seat. He removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief, saying that it was "raight dahn warm for Febewerry."
Mr. Moore uttered some slight sound of agreement. The visitor carefully deposited an official-looking staff in the corner; then he began to whistle.


"You have what is necessary, I suppose?" said Mr. Moore.


He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading. The paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently, however, he turned to his cupboard, which was within reach of his long arm, opened it without rising, took out a black bottle--the same he had produced for Malone's benefit--a tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said to his guest,--

He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading. Presently, however, Moore turned to his cupboard, opened it without rising, took out a black bottle - the same he had produced for Malone's benefit - a tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said:


"Help yourself; there's water in that jar in the corner."

"Help yourself; there's water in that jar over there."


"I dunnut knaw that there's mich need, for all a body is dry (thirsty) in a morning," said the fustian gentleman, rising and doing as requested.


"Will you tak naught yourseln, Mr. Moore?" he inquired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and having tested it by a deep draught, sank back satisfied and bland in his seat. Moore, chary of words, replied by a negative movement and murmur.

"Will you tak naught yourseln, Mr. Moore?" inquired his guest, as he mixed a portion, tasted it, and sank back satisfied in his seat. Moore shook his head.


"Yah'd as good," continued his visitor; "it 'uld set ye up wald a sup o' this stuff. Uncommon good hollands. Ye get it fro' furrin parts, I'se think?"

"Yah'd as good," continued his visitor; "it'd set ye up.


"Tak my advice and try a glass on't. Them lads 'at's coming 'll keep ye talking, nob'dy knows how long. Ye'll need propping."

Tak my advice and try a glass. Them lads that's coming 'll keep ye talking. Ye'll need propping."


"Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning?" inquired Moore.


"I seed him a hauf an hour--nay, happen a quarter of an hour sin', just afore I set off. He said he aimed to come here, and I sudn't wonder but ye'll have old Helstone too. I seed 'em saddling his little nag as I passed at back o' t' rectory."

"I seed him just afore I set off. He said he aimed to come here, and I sudn't wonder but ye'll have old Helstone too. I seed 'em saddling his little nag as I passed t' rectory."


The speaker was a true prophet, for the trot of a little nag's hoofs was, five minutes after, heard in the yard. It stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud, "Boy" (probably addressing Harry Scott, who usually hung about the premises from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.), "take my horse and lead him into the stable."

The trot of the little nag's hoofs was, five minutes after, heard in the yard. A well-known nasal voice cried aloud, "Boy, lead my horse into the stable."


Helstone came in marching nimbly and erect, looking browner, keener, and livelier than usual.

Then Helstone came marching in, looking keener and livelier than usual.


"Beautiful morning, Moore. How do, my boy? Ha! whom have we here?" (turning to the personage with the staff). "Sugden! What! you're going to work directly? On my word, you lose no time. But I come to ask explanations. Your message was delivered to me. Are you sure you are on the right scent? How do you mean to set about the business? Have you got a warrant?"

"Beautiful morning, Moore. How do? Ha! whom have we here? Sugden! On my word, you lose no time. Your message was delivered to me, Moore. Are you sure you are on the right scent? Have you got a warrant?"


"Then you are going to seek him now? I'll accompany you."


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

"You will be spared that trouble, sir; he is coming to seek me. I'm awaiting his arrival."


"And who is it? One of my parishioners?"


Joe Scott had entered unobserved. He now stood, a most sinister phantom, half his person being dyed of the deepest tint of indigo, leaning on the desk. His master's answer to the rector's question was a smile. Joe took the word. Putting on a quiet but pawky look, he said,--

Joe Scott had entered, like a sinister indigo phantom. He said:


"It's a friend of yours, Mr. Helstone, a gentleman you often speak of."

"It's a friend of yours, Mr. Helstone: the Rev. Moses Barraclough.


"Indeed! His name, Joe? You look well this morning."


"Only the Rev. Moses Barraclough; t' tub orator you call him sometimes, I think."

The tub orator you call him sometimes, I think."


"Ah!" said the rector, taking out his snuff-box, and administering to himself a very long pinch--"ah! couldn't have supposed it. Why, the pious man never was a workman of yours, Moore. He's a tailor by trade."

"Ah!" said the rector, taking out his snuff-box, and helping himself to a long pinch. "Why, he never was a workman of yours, Moore. He's a tailor."


"And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for interfering and setting my discarded men against me."

"And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for interfering and setting my men against me."


"And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro' Moor? He went there, wooden leg and all?"

"And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro' Moor, wooden leg and all?"


"Ay, sir," said Joe; "he went there on horseback, that his leg mightn't be noticed. He was the captain, and wore a mask. The rest only had their faces blackened."

"Ay, sir," said Joe; "he went there on horseback. He was the captain, and wore a mask."


"I'll tell you, sir," said Joe. "T' maister's not so fond of talking. I've no objections. He courted Sarah, Mr. Moore's sarvant lass, and so it seems she would have nothing to say to him; she either didn't like his wooden leg or she'd some notion about his being a hypocrite. Happen (for women is queer hands; we may say that amang werseln when there's none of 'em nigh) she'd have encouraged him, in spite of his leg and his deceit, just to pass time like. I've known some on 'em do as mich, and some o' t' bonniest and mimmest-looking, too--ay, I've seen clean, trim young things, that looked as denty and pure as daisies, and wi' time a body fun' 'em out to be nowt but stinging, venomed nettles."

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


"Joe's a sensible fellow," interjected Helstone.


"Howsiver, Sarah had another string to her bow. Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her; and as women judge men by their faces--and Fred has a middling face, while Moses is none so handsome, as we all knaw--the lass took on wi' Fred. A two-three months sin', Murgatroyd and Moses chanced to meet one Sunday night; they'd both come lurking about these premises wi' the notion of counselling Sarah to tak a bit of a walk wi' them. They fell out, had a tussle, and Fred was worsted, for he's young and small, and Barraclough, for all he has only one leg, is almost as strong as Sugden there--indeed, anybody that hears him roaring at a revival or a love-feast may be sure he's no weakling."

"Howsiver, Sarah had another string to her bow. Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her; and two-three months ago, Murgatroyd and Moses chanced to meet one Sunday night. They'd both come to ax Sarah to tak a walk wi' them. They fell out, had a tussle, and Fred was worsted, for he's young and small, and Barraclough, for all he has only one leg, is almost as strong as Sugden there."


"Joe, you're insupportable," here broke in Mr. Moore. "You spin out your explanation as Moses spins out his sermons. The long and short of it is, Murgatroyd was jealous of Barraclough; and last night, as he and a friend took shelter in a barn from a shower, they heard and saw Moses conferring with some associates within. From their discourse it was plain he had been the leader, not only at Stilbro' Moor, but in the attack on Sykes's property. Moreover they planned a deputation to wait on me this morning, which the tailor is to head, and which, in the most religious and peaceful spirit, is to entreat me to put the accursed thing out of my tent. I rode over to Whinbury this morning, got a constable and a warrant, and I am now waiting to give my friend the reception he deserves. Here, meantime, comes Sykes. Mr. Helstone, you must spirit him up. He feels timid at the thoughts of prosecuting."

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


A gig was heard to roll into the yard. Mr. Sykes entered--a tall stout man of about fifty, comely of feature, but feeble of physiognomy. He looked anxious.

Mr. Sykes entered - a tall stout man of about fifty, who looked anxious.


"Have they been? Are they gone? Have you got him? Is it over?" he asked.

"Have they been? Have you got him? Is it over?" he asked.


"Not yet," returned Moore with phlegm. "We are waiting for them."

"Not yet," returned Moore. "We are waiting for them."


"They'll not come; it's near noon. Better give it up. It will excite bad feeling--make a stir--cause perhaps fatal consequences."

"They'll not come; it's near noon. Better give it up. It will make a stir - may have fatal consequences."


"_You_ need not appear," said Moore. "I shall meet them in the yard when they come; _you_ can stay here."

"You need not appear," said Moore. "I shall meet them in the yard; you can stay here."


"But my name must be seen in the law proceedings. A wife and family, Mr. Moore--a wife and family make a man cautious."

"But my name will be seen in the law proceedings. A wife and family make a man cautious."


Moore looked disgusted. "Give way, if you please," said he; "leave me to myself. I have no objection to act alone; only be assured you will not find safety in submission. Your partner Pearson gave way, and conceded, and forbore. Well, that did not prevent them from attempting to shoot him in his own house."

Moore looked disgusted. "I have no objection to act alone," he said; "only you will not find safety in yielding. Your partner Pearson gave way, but that did not prevent them from trying to shoot him in his own house."


"My dear sir, take a little wine and water," recommended Mr. Helstone. The wine and water was hollands and water, as Mr. Sykes discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof. It transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face, and made him at least _word_-valiant. He now announced that he hoped he was above being trampled on by the common people; he was determined to endure the insolence of the working-classes no longer; he had considered of it, and made up his mind to go all lengths; if money and spirit could put down these rioters, they should be put down; Mr. Moore might do as he liked, but _he_--Christie Sykes--would spend his last penny in law before he would be beaten; he'd settle them, or he'd see.

"My dear sir, take a little wine and water," recommended Mr. Helstone. A brimming tumbler transfigured Mr. Sykes in two minutes. He now announced that he would endure the insolence of the working-classes no longer; he had made up his mind to put them down.


Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did. This was a cold morning (Sugden had found it a warm one); it was necessary to be careful at this season of the year--it was proper to take something to keep the damp out; he had a little cough already (here he coughed in attestation of the fact); something of this sort (lifting the black bottle) was excellent, taken medicinally (he poured the physic into his tumbler); he didn't make a practice of drinking spirits in a morning, but occasionally it really was prudent to take precautions.

Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did - just to keep the damp out; he had a little cough (here he coughed to prove the fact), and it really was prudent to take precautions.


"Quite prudent, and take them by all means," urged the host.


Mr. Sykes now addressed Mr. Helstone, who stood on the hearth, his shovel-hat on his head, watching him significantly with his little, keen eyes.

Mr. Sykes now addressed Mr. Helstone, who stood watching him keenly.


"You, sir, as a clergyman," said he, "may feel it disagreeable to be present amidst scenes of hurry and flurry, and, I may say, peril. I dare say your nerves won't stand it. You're a man of peace, sir; but we manufacturers, living in the world, and always in turmoil, get quite belligerent. Really, there's an ardour excited by the thoughts of danger that makes my heart pant. When Mrs. Sykes is afraid of the house being attacked and broke open--as she is every night--I get quite excited. I couldn't describe to you, sir, my feelings. Really, if anybody was to come--thieves or anything--I believe I should enjoy it, such is my spirit."

"You, sir, as a clergyman," said he, "may feel it disagreeable to be present amidst scenes of peril. I dare say your nerves won't stand it. You're a man of peace, sir; but we manufacturers, living in the world, and always in turmoil, get quite belligerent. Really, if anybody was to attack my house - thieves or anything - I believe I should enjoy it, such is my spirit."


The hardest of laughs, though brief and low, and by no means insulting, was the response of the rector. Moore would have pressed upon the heroic mill-owner a third tumbler, but the clergyman, who never transgressed, nor would suffer others in his presence to transgress, the bounds of decorum, checked him.

The rector laughed. Moore would have pressed a third tumbler upon the heroic mill-owner, but Helstone, for the sake of decorum, prevented him.


"Enough is as good as a feast, is it not, Mr. Sykes?" he said; and Mr. Sykes assented, and then sat and watched Joe Scott remove the bottle at a sign from Helstone, with a self-satisfied simper on his lips and a regretful glisten in his eye. Moore looked as if he should have liked to fool him to the top of his bent. What would a certain young kinswoman of his have said could she have seen her dear, good, great Robert--her Coriolanus--just now? Would she have acknowledged in that mischievous, sardonic visage the same face to which she had looked up with such love, which had bent over her with such gentleness last night? Was that the man who had spent so quiet an evening with his sister and his cousin--so suave to one, so tender to the other--reading Shakespeare and listening to Chnier?

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


Yes, it was the same man, only seen on a different side--a side Caroline had not yet fairly beheld, though perhaps she had enough sagacity faintly to suspect its existence. Well, Caroline had, doubtless, her defective side too. She was human. She must, then, have been very imperfect; and had she seen Moore on his very worst side, she would probably have said this to herself and excused him. Love can excuse anything except meanness; but meanness kills love, cripples even natural affection; without esteem true love cannot exist. Moore, with all his faults, might be esteemed; for he had no moral scrofula in his mind, no hopeless polluting taint--such, for instance, as that of falsehood; neither was he the slave of his appetites. The active life to which he had been born and bred had given him something else to do than to join the futile chase of the pleasure-hunter. He was a man undegraded, the disciple of reason, _not_ the votary of sense. The same might be said of old Helstone. Neither of these two would look, think, or speak a lie; for neither of them had the wretched black bottle, which had just been put away, any charms. Both might boast a valid claim to the proud title of "lord of the creation," for no animal vice was lord of them; they looked and were superior beings to poor Sykes.

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


A sort of gathering and trampling sound was heard in the yard, and then a pause. Moore walked to the window; Helstone followed. Both stood on one side, the tall junior behind the under-sized senior, looking forth carefully, so that they might not be visible from without. Their sole comment on what they saw was a cynical smile flashed into each other's stern eyes.

A trampling sound was heard in the yard. Moore walked to the window; Helstone followed. They looked forth carefully, so that they might not be visible from outside.


A flourishing oratorical cough was now heard, followed by the interjection "Whisht!" designed, as it seemed, to still the hum of several voices. Moore opened his casement an inch or two to admit sound more freely.

A flourishing oratorical cough was now heard, followed by "Whisht!" Moore opened his window an inch or two to admit sound.


"Joseph Scott," began a snuffling voice--Scott was standing sentinel at the counting-house door--"might we inquire if your master be within, and is to be spoken to?"

"Joseph Scott," began a snuffling voice - Scott was standing sentinel at the counting-house door - "might we inquire if your master be within?"


"He's within, ay," said Joe nonchalantly.


"Would you then, if _you_ please" (emphasis on "you"), "have the goodness to tell _him_ that twelve gentlemen wants to see him."

"Would you then, if you please, tell him that twelve gentlemen wants to see him."


"He'd happen ax what for," suggested Joe. "I mught as weel tell him that at t' same time."


"For a purpose," was the answer. Joe entered.


"Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to see ye, 'for a purpose.'"


"Good, Joe; I'm their man.--Sugden, come when I whistle."


Moore went out, chuckling dryly. He advanced into the yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat, his cap brim over his eyes, shading in some measure their deep dancing ray of scorn. Twelve men waited in the yard, some in their shirt-sleeves, some in blue aprons. Two figured conspicuously in the van of the party. One, a little dapper strutting man with a turned-up nose; the other a broad-shouldered fellow, distinguished no less by his demure face and cat like, trustless eyes than by a wooden leg and stout crutch. There was a kind of leer about his lips; he seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing; his whole air was anything but that of a true man.

Moore went out, chuckling dryly. He advanced into the yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat, his cap brim over his eyes, shading their deep dancing ray of scorn.
Twelve men waited in the yard, with two in front: one, a little dapper strutting man with a turned-up nose; the other a broad-shouldered fellow, with demure, cat like, trustless eyes, and a wooden leg and crutch. He seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing.


"Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough," said Moore debonairly, for him.

"Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough," said Moore to him.


"Peace be unto you!" was the answer, Mr. Barraclough entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes as he delivered it.

"Peace be unto you!" answered Mr. Barraclough, entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes.


"I'm obliged to you. Peace is an excellent thing; there's nothing I more wish for myself. But that is not all you have to say to me, I suppose? I imagine peace is not your purpose?"

"I'm obliged to you. Peace is an excellent thing; but I imagine peace is not your purpose?"


"As to our purpose," began Barraclough, "it's one that may sound strange and perhaps foolish to ears like yours, for the childer of this world is wiser in their generation than the childer of light."


"To the point, if you please, and let me hear what it is."


"Ye'se hear, sir. If I cannot get it off, there's eleven behint can help me. It is a grand purpose, and" (changing his voice from a half-sneer to a whine) "it's the Looard's own purpose, and that's better."

"Ye'se hear, sir. It is a grand purpose, and" (changing his voice to a whine) "it's the Looard's own purpose."


"Do you want a subscription to a new Ranter's chapel, Mr. Barraclough? Unless your errand be something of that sort, I cannot see what you have to do with it."

"Do you want a subscription to a new Ranter's chapel, Mr. Barraclough?"


"I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; but as Providence has led ye to mention the subject, I'll make it i' my way to tak ony trifle ye may have to spare; the smallest contribution will be acceptable."

"I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; but since ye mention the subject, I'll tak ony small trifle ye may have to spare."


With that he doffed his hat, and held it out as a begging-box, a brazen grin at the same time crossing his countenance.

With that he doffed his hat, and held it out as a begging-box with a brazen grin.


"If I gave you sixpence you would drink it."


Barraclough uplifted the palms of his hands and the whites of his eyes, evincing in the gesture a mere burlesque of hypocrisy.


"You seem a fine fellow," said Moore, quite coolly and dryly; "you don't care for showing me that you are a double-dyed hypocrite, that your trade is fraud. You expect indeed to make me laugh at the cleverness with which you play your coarsely farcical part, while at the same time you think you are deceiving the men behind you."

You seem a fine fellow," said Moore dryly; "you don't mind showing me that your trade is hypocrisy and fraud. You expect to make me laugh at your cleverness, while at the same time you think you are deceiving the men behind you."


Moses' countenance lowered. He saw he had gone too far. He was going to answer, when the second leader, impatient of being hitherto kept in the background, stepped forward. This man did not look like a traitor, though he had an exceedingly self-confident and conceited air.

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


"Mr. Moore," commenced he, speaking also in his throat and nose, and enunciating each word very slowly, as if with a view to giving his audience time to appreciate fully the uncommon elegance of the phraseology, "it might, perhaps, justly be said that reason rather than peace is our purpose. We come, in the first place, to request you to hear reason; and should _you_ refuse, it is my duty to warn _you_, in very decided terms, that measures will be had resort to" (he meant recourse) "which will probably terminate in--in bringing _you_ to a sense of the unwisdom, of the--the foolishness which seems to guide and guard your proceedings as a tradesman in this manufacturing part of the country. Hem! Sir, I would beg to allude that as a furriner, coming from a distant coast, another quarter and hemisphere of this globe, thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these shores--the cliffs of Albion--you have not that understanding of huz and wer ways which might conduce to the benefit of the working-classes. If, to come at once to partic'lars, you'd consider to give up this here miln, and go without further protractions straight home to where you belong, it 'ud happen be as well. I can see naught ageean such a plan.--What hev ye to say tull't, lads?" turning round to the other members of the deputation, who responded unanimously, "Hear, hear!"

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


"Brayvo, Noah o' Tim's!" murmured Joe Scott, who stood behind Mr. Moore. "Moses'll niver beat that. Cliffs o' Albion, and t' other hemisphere! My certy! Did ye come fro' th' Antarctic Zone, maister? Moses is dished."

"Brayvo, Noah!" murmured Joe Scott, who stood behind Mr. Moore. "Moses'll niver beat that. Cliffs o' Albion! Moses is dished."


Moses, however, refused to be dished. He thought he would try again. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at "Noah o' Tim's," he launched out in his turn; and now he spoke in a serious tone, relinquishing the sarcasm which he found had not answered.

Moses, however, refused to be dished. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at Noah, he launched out in a more serious tone.


"Or iver you set up the pole o' your tent amang us, Mr. Moore, we lived i' peace and quietness--yea, I may say, in all loving-kindness. I am not myself an aged person as yet, but I can remember as far back as maybe some twenty year, when hand-labour were encouraged and respected, and no mischief-maker had ventured to introduce these here machines which is so pernicious. Now, I'm not a cloth-dresser myself, but by trade a tailor. Howsiver, my heart is of a softish nature. I'm a very feeling man, and when I see my brethren oppressed, like my great namesake of old, I stand up for 'em; for which intent I this day speak with you face to face, and advises you to part wi' your infernal machinery, and tak on more hands."

"Before you set up your tent among us, Mr. Moore, we lived i' peace and quietness - yea, in loving-kindness. I can remember some twenty year back, when hand-labour were respected, and no mischief-maker had ventured to introduce these here machines. Now, I'm a tailor myself. Howsiver, my heart is of a softish nature. I'm a very feeling man, and when I see my brethren oppressed, I stand up for 'em. Therefore I advise you to part wi' your infernal machinery, and tak on more hands."


"What if I don't follow your advice, Mr. Barraclough?"


"The Looard pardon you! The Looard soften your heart, sir!"


"Are you in connection with the Wesleyans now, Mr. Barraclough?"

"Are you a Wesleyan now, Mr. Barraclough?"


"Praise God! Bless His name! I'm a joined Methody!"


"Which in no respect prevents you from being at the same time a drunkard and a swindler. I saw you one night a week ago laid dead-drunk by the roadside, as I returned from Stilbro' market; and while you preach peace, you make it the business of your life to stir up dissension. You no more sympathize with the poor who are in distress than you sympathize with me. You incite them to outrage for bad purposes of your own; so does the individual called Noah of Tim's. You two are restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels, whose chief motive-principle is a selfish ambition, as dangerous as it is puerile. The persons behind you are some of them honest though misguided men; but you two I count altogether bad."

"Which does not prevent you from being a drunkard and a swindler. I saw you a week ago laid dead-drunk by the roadside, as I returned from Stilbro' market; and while you preach peace, you spend your life stirring up dissension. You no more sympathize with the poor than you do with me. You incite them to outrage for bad purposes of your own; so does this Noah. You two are restless, meddling, impudent scoundrels, whose motive is selfish ambition. Behind you are some honest though misguided men; but you two I count altogether bad."


"Silence! You have had your say, and now I will have mine. As to being dictated to by you, or any Jack, Jem, or Jonathan on earth, I shall not suffer it for a moment. You desire me to quit the country; you request me to part with my machinery. In case I refuse, you threaten me. I _do_ refuse--point-blank! Here I stay, and by this mill I stand, and into it will I convey the best machinery inventors can furnish. What will you do? The utmost you _can_ do--and this you will never _dare_ to do--is to burn down my mill, destroy its contents, and shoot me. What then? Suppose that building was a ruin and I was a corpse--what then, you lads behind these two scamps? Would that stop invention or exhaust science? Not for the fraction of a second of time! Another and better gig-mill would rise on the ruins of this, and perhaps a more enterprising owner come in my place. Hear me! I'll make my cloth as I please, and according to the best lights I have. In its manufacture I will employ what means I choose. Whoever, after hearing this, shall dare to interfere with me may just take the consequences. An example shall prove I'm in earnest."

"Silence! You have had your say, and now I will have mine. I will not be dictated to by you. You want me to quit the country, and to part with my machinery. If I refuse, you threaten me. I do refuse. Here I stay, and by this mill I stand, and into it will I convey the best machinery invented. What will you do? Burn down my mill and shoot me? What then? Suppose that building was a ruin and I was a corpse - would that stop invention? Not for a second! Another mill would rise on the ruins of this, and perhaps a more enterprising owner come in my place. Hear me! I'll make my cloth as I please, and using what means I choose. Whoever interferes with me may take the consequences. I'll prove I'm in earnest."


He whistled shrill and loud. Sugden, his staff and warrant, came on the scene.

He whistled shrilly and loud. Sugden came out with his staff and warrant.


Moore turned sharply to Barraclough. "You were at Stilbro'," said he; "I have proof of that. You were on the moor, you wore a mask, you knocked down one of my men with your own hand--you! a preacher of the gospel!--Sugden, arrest him!"

Moore turned sharply to Barraclough. "You were on Stilbro' moor," said he; "I have proof of that. You wore a mask, you knocked down one of my men with your own hand - you! a preacher of the gospel! Sugden, arrest him!"


Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to rescue, but the right hand which all this while had lain hidden in Moore's breast, reappearing, held out a pistol.

Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to rescue him, but Moore's right hand, which had lain hidden in his breast, reappeared holding a pistol.


"Both barrels are loaded," said he. "I'm quite determined! Keep off!"

"Both barrels are loaded," said he. "Keep off!"


Stepping backwards, facing the foe as he went, he guarded his prey to the counting-house. He ordered Joe Scott to pass in with Sugden and the prisoner, and to bolt the door inside. For himself, he walked backwards and forwards along the front of the mill, looking meditatively on the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but still holding the pistol. The eleven remaining deputies watched him some time, talking under their breath to each other. At length one of them approached. This man looked very different from either of the two who had previously spoken; he was hard-favoured, but modest and manly-looking.

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


"I've not much faith i' Moses Barraclough," said he, "and I would speak a word to you myseln, Mr. Moore. It's out o' no ill-will that I'm here, for my part; it's just to mak a effort to get things straightened, for they're sorely a-crooked. Ye see we're ill off--varry ill off; wer families is poor and pined. We're thrown out o' work wi' these frames; we can get nought to do; we can earn nought. What is to be done? Mun we say, wisht! and lig us down and dee? Nay; I've no grand words at my tongue's end, Mr. Moore, but I feel that it wad be a low principle for a reasonable man to starve to death like a dumb cratur. I willn't do't. I'm not for shedding blood: I'd neither kill a man nor hurt a man; and I'm not for pulling down mills and breaking machines--for, as ye say, that way o' going on'll niver stop invention; but I'll talk--I'll mak as big a din as ever I can. Invention may be all right, but I know it isn't right for poor folks to starve. Them that governs mun find a way to help us; they mun make fresh orderations. Ye'll say that's hard to do. So mich louder mun we shout out then, for so much slacker will t' Parliament-men be to set on to a tough job."

"I've not much faith i' Moses Barraclough," said he, "and I would speak a word to you myseln, Mr. Moore. It's out o' no ill-will that I'm here; it's just to try to get things straightened. Ye see we're ill off; our families is poor and pined. We're thrown out o' work wi' these frames; we can earn nought. What is to be done? Mun we lay us down and dee? I've no grand words, Mr. Moore, but I feel that a reasonable man should not starve to death. I'm not for shedding blood, and I'm not for pulling down mills and breaking machines - for as ye say, that niver stops invention; but I'll mak as big a din as ever I can. I know it isn't right for poor folks to starve. Them that governs mun find a way to help us. Ye'll say that's hard to do. So much louder mun we shout out then, to set t' Parliament-men on to the job."


"Worry the Parliament-men as much as you please," said Moore; "but to worry the mill-owners is absurd, and I for one won't stand it."

"Worry the Parliament-men as much as you please," said Moore; "but to worry the mill-owners is absurd, and I won't stand it."


"Ye're a raight hard un!" returned the workman. "Willn't ye gie us a bit o' time? Willn't ye consent to mak your changes rather more slowly?"

"Ye're a raight hard un!" returned the workman. "Won't ye gie us a bit o' time? Won't ye mak your changes more slowly?"


"Am I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire? Answer me that."


"And only myself. And if I stopped by the way an instant, while others are rushing on, I should be trodden down. If I did as you wish me to do, I should be bankrupt in a month; and would my bankruptcy put bread into your hungry children's mouths? William Farren, neither to your dictation nor to that of any other will I submit. Talk to me no more about machinery. I will have my own way. I shall get new frames in to-morrow. If you broke these, I would still get more. _I'll never give in._"

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


Here the mill-bell rang twelve o'clock. It was the dinner-hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered his counting-house.

Here the mill-bell rang twelve o'clock. Moore abruptly turned away and re-entered his counting-house.


His last words had left a bad, harsh impression; he, at least, had "failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of." By speaking kindly to William Farren--who was a very honest man, without envy or hatred of those more happily circumstanced than himself, thinking it no hardship and no injustice to be forced to live by labour, disposed to be honourably content if he could but get work to do--Moore might have made a friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn from such a man without a conciliatory or a sympathizing expression. The poor fellow's face looked haggard with want; he had the aspect of a man who had not known what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months, past, and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in his countenance; it was worn, dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words, "I'll never give in," and not a whisper of good-will, or hope, or aid?

His last words had left a harsh impression. By speaking kindly to William Farren, who was a very honest, hard-working man, Moore might have made a friend. It seemed extraordinary that he could turn from such a man without any sympathy. The poor fellow looked haggard with want and hunger; yet there was no malignity in his face; it was worn, dejected, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words, "I'll never give in," and not a whisper of good-will, or aid?


Farren, as he went home to his cottage--once, in better times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, but now, though still clean, very dreary, because so poor--asked himself this question. He concluded that the foreign mill-owner was a selfish, an unfeeling, and, he thought, too, a foolish man. It appeared to him that emigration, had he only the means to emigrate, would be preferable to service under such a master. He felt much cast down--almost hopeless.

Farren, as he went home to his cottage - once a decent, pleasant place, but now, though still clean, very dreary, because so poor - asked himself this question. He concluded that the foreign mill-owner was a selfish, unfeeling, and foolish man. He felt cast down - almost hopeless.


On his entrance his wife served out, in orderly sort, such dinner as she had to give him and the bairns. It was only porridge, and too little of that. Some of the younger children asked for more when they had done their portion--an application which disturbed William much. While his wife quieted them as well as she could, he left his seat and went to the door. He whistled a cheery stave, which did not, however, prevent a broad drop or two (much more like the "first of a thunder-shower" than those which oozed from the wound of the gladiator) from gathering on the lids of his gray eyes, and plashing thence to the threshold. He cleared his vision with his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one followed.

On his entrance his wife served out such dinner as she had to give him and the bairns. It was only porridge, and too little of that. Some of the younger children asked for more, which disturbed William much. While his wife quieted them as well as she could, he went to the doorway to conceal from his family the tears which were gathering in his grey eyes. He cleared his vision with his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one followed.


He still stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came up--a clergyman, it might be seen at once, but neither Helstone, nor Malone, nor Donne, nor Sweeting. He might be forty years old; he was plain-looking, dark-complexioned, and already rather gray-haired. He stooped a little in walking. His countenance, as he came on, wore an abstracted and somewhat doleful air; but in approaching Farren he looked up, and then a hearty expression illuminated the preoccupied, serious face.

He stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came up - a clergyman, but not one we have met before. He was about forty years old; plain-looking, and rather grey-haired. He wore an abstracted and somewhat doleful air; but on approaching Farren he looked up with a hearty expression.


"Is it you, William? How are you?" he asked.


"Middling, Mr. Hall. How are _ye_? Will ye step in and rest ye?"

"Middling, Mr. Hall. How are ye? Will ye step in and rest ye?"


Mr. Hall, whose name the reader has seen mentioned before (and who, indeed, was vicar of Nunnely, of which parish Farren was a native, and from whence he had removed but three years ago to reside in Briarfield, for the convenience of being near Hollow's Mill, where he had obtained work), entered the cottage, and having greeted the good-wife and the children, sat down. He proceeded to talk very cheerfully about the length of time that had elapsed since the family quitted his parish, the changes which had occurred since; he answered questions touching his sister Margaret, who was inquired after with much interest; he asked questions in his turn, and at last, glancing hastily and anxiously round through his spectacles (he wore spectacles, for he was short-sighted) at the bare room, and at the meagre and wan faces of the circle about him--for the children had come round his knee, and the father and mother stood before him--he said abruptly,--

Mr. Hall was vicar of Nunnely, from which parish Farren originally came, before he had moved to Briarfield to work in the mill. He entered the cottage, and having greeted the wife and children, sat down. He talked very cheerfully about events in his parish since the family had left; he answered questions about his sister Margaret; he asked questions in his turn, and at last, glancing anxiously round at the bare room, and at the faces of the children by his knee, he said abruptly:


"And how are you all? How do you get on?"


Mr. Hall, be it remarked, though an accomplished scholar, not only spoke with a strong northern accent, but, on occasion, used freely north-country expressions.


"We get on poorly," said William; "we're all out of work. I've selled most o' t' household stuff, as ye may see; and what we're to do next, God knows."


"He has turned us off; and I've sich an opinion of him now that I think if he'd tak me on again to-morrow I wouldn't work for him."

"He has turned us off; and if he'd tak me on again tomorrow I wouldn't work for him."


"It is not like you to say so, William."


"I know it isn't; but I'm getting different to mysel'; I feel I am changing. I wadn't heed if t' bairns and t' wife had enough to live on; but they're pinched--they're pined----"

"I know; but I feel I am changing. T' bairns and t' wife are that pinched-"


"Well, my lad, and so are you; I see you are. These are grievous times; I see suffering wherever I turn. William, sit down. Grace, sit down. Let us talk it over."

"Well, my lad, and so are you. These are grievous times; I see suffering wherever I turn. Sit down, and let us talk it over."


And in order the better to talk it over, Mr. Hall lifted the least of the children on to his knee, and placed his hand on the head of the next least; but when the small things began to chatter to him he bade them "Whisht!" and fixing his eyes on the grate, he regarded the handful of embers which burned there very gravely.

Mr. Hall lifted the smallest child on to his knee, and placed his hand on the head of the next smallest.


"Sad times," he said, "and they last long. It is the will of God. His will be done. But He tries us to the utmost."


"You've no money, William, and you've nothing you could sell to raise a small sum?"

"You've no money, William, and you've nothing you could sell to raise any?"


"No. I've selled t' chest o' drawers, and t' clock, and t' bit of a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny tea-tray and set o' cheeney 'at she brought for a portion when we were wed."

"No. I've selled t' chest o' drawers, and t' clock, and a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny tea-tray and set o' wedding chiney."


"And if somebody lent you a pound or two, could you make any good use of it? Could you get into a new way of doing something?"

"If somebody lent you a pound or two, could you make any good use of it? Could you get into a new way of doing something?"


Farren did not answer, but his wife said quickly, "Ay, I'm sure he could, sir. He's a very contriving chap is our William. If he'd two or three pounds he could begin selling stuff."

Farren did not answer, but his wife said quickly, "Ay, I'm sure he could, sir. He's a very contriving chap, is our William. If he'd two or three pounds he could begin selling stuff."


"Please God," returned William deliberately, "I could buy groceries, and bits o' tapes, and thread, and what I thought would sell, and I could begin hawking at first."

"Please God," returned William deliberately, "I could buy groceries, and bits o' tapes, and thread, and I could begin hawking at first."


"And you know, sir," interposed Grace, "you're sure William would neither drink, nor idle, nor waste, in any way. He's my husband, and I shouldn't praise him; but I _will_ say there's not a soberer, honester man i' England nor he is."

"And you know, sir," interposed Grace, "William would neither drink, nor idle, nor waste, in any way. He's my husband, and I shouldn't praise him; but I will say there's not a soberer, honester man i' England."


"Well, I'll speak to one or two friends, and I think I can promise to let him have 5 in a day or two--as a loan, ye mind, not a gift. He must pay it back."

"Well, I'll speak to one or two friends, and I think I can promise to let him have five pounds in a day or two - as a loan, mind, not a gift. He must pay it back."


"I understand, sir. I'm quite agreeable to that."


"Meantime, there's a few shillings for you, Grace, just to keep the pot boiling till custom comes.--Now, bairns, stand up in a row and say your catechism, while your mother goes and buys some dinner; for you've not had much to-day, I'll be bound.--You begin, Ben. What is your name?"

"Meantime, there's a few shillings for you, Grace, just to keep the pot boiling. - Now, bairns, stand in a row and say your catechism, while your mother goes and buys some dinner; for you've not had much today, I'll be bound. You begin, Ben."


Mr. Hall stayed till Grace came back; then he hastily took his leave, shaking hands with both Farren and his wife. Just at the door he said to them a few brief but very earnest words of religious consolation and exhortation. With a mutual "God bless you, sir!" "God bless you, my friends!" they separated.

Mr. Hall stayed till Grace came back; then he took his leave, shaking hands with both Farren and his wife, and saying a few brief but very earnest words of religious consolation.
With a mutual "God bless you, sir!" "God bless you, my friends!" they separated.


"Of course, I know he will marry Shirley," were her first words when she rose in the morning. "And he ought to marry her. She can help him," she added firmly. "But I shall be forgotten when they _are_ married," was the cruel succeeding thought. "Oh! I shall be wholly forgotten! And what--_what_ shall I do when Robert is taken quite from me? Where shall I turn? _My_ Robert! I wish I could justly call him mine. But I am poverty and incapacity; Shirley is wealth and power. And she is beauty too, and love. I cannot deny it. This is no sordid suit. She loves him--not with inferior feelings. She loves, or _will_ love, as he must feel proud to be loved. Not a valid objection can be made. Let them be married, then. But afterwards I shall be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all that stuff, I despise it. I will either be all or nothing to a man like Robert; no feeble shuffling or false cant is endurable. Once let that pair be united, and I will certainly leave them. As for lingering about, playing the hypocrite, and pretending to calm sentiments of friendship, when my soul will be wrung with other feelings, I shall not descend to such degradation. As little could I fill the place of their mutual friend as that of their deadly foe; as little could I stand between them as trample over them. Robert is a first-rate man--in my eyes. I _have_ loved, _do_ love, and _must___ love him. I would be his wife if I could; as I cannot, I must go where I shall never see him. There is but one alternative--to cleave to him as if I were a part of him, or to be sundered from him wide as the two poles of a sphere.--Sunder me then, Providence. Part us speedily."

"Of course, I know he will marry Shirley," were her first words when she rose in the morning. "And he ought to marry her. She can help him."
But the cruel next thought was, "Oh! I shall be wholly forgotten when they are married! And what shall I do when Robert is quite taken from me? Where shall I turn? My Robert! I wish I could call him mine. But I am poverty; Shirley is wealth and power, and beauty too, and love. I cannot deny it. She loves him. Let them be married, then. But afterwards I shall be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all that stuff, I despise it. I will be all or nothing to a man like Robert. Once that pair is united, I will certainly leave them. As little could I fill the place of their mutual friend as that of their deadly foe. Robert is a first-rate man: I love him. I would be his wife if I could; as I cannot, I must go where I shall never see him. - Sunder me then, Providence. Part us speedily."

Chapter 14: SHIRLEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WORKS


Some such aspirations as these were again working in her mind late in the afternoon, when the apparition of one of the personages haunting her thoughts passed the parlour window. Miss Keeldar sauntered slowly by, her gait, her countenance, wearing that mixture of wistfulness and carelessness which, when quiescent, was the wonted cast of her look and character of her bearing. When animated, the carelessness quite vanished, the wistfulness became blent with a genial gaiety, seasoning the laugh, the smile, the glance, with a unique flavour of sentiment, so that mirth from her never resembled "the crackling of thorns under a pot."

Late in the afternoon, the apparition of one of the people haunting her thoughts passed the parlour window. Miss Keeldar sauntered slowly by with her usual mixture of wistfulness and carelessness.


"What do you mean by not coming to see me this afternoon, as you promised?" was her address to Caroline as she entered the room.

"What do you mean by not coming to see me this afternoon, as you promised?" she asked Caroline as she entered.


"I was not in the humour," replied Miss Helstone, very truly.

"I was not in the humour," replied Miss Helstone truthfully.


Shirley had already fixed on her a penetrating eye.


"No," she said; "I see you are not in the humour for loving me. You are in one of your sunless, inclement moods, when one feels a fellow-creature's presence is not welcome to you. You have such moods. Are you aware of it?"

"No," she said; "I see you are not in the humour for loving me. You are in one of your sunless, inclement moods, when a fellow-creature's presence is not welcome to you. You have such moods. Are you aware of it?"


"Yes. I am come to have my tea, and must have it before I go. I shall take the liberty, then, of removing my bonnet, without being asked."

"Yes. I am come for tea, and must have it before I go. I shall take the liberty of removing my bonnet without being asked."


And this she did, and then stood on the rug with her hands behind her.


"A pretty expression you have in your countenance," she went on, still gazing keenly, though not inimically--rather indeed pityingly--at Caroline. "Wonderfully self-supported you look, you solitude-seeking, wounded deer. Are you afraid Shirley will worry you if she discovers that you are hurt, and that you bleed?"

"A pretty expression you have on your face," she went on, still gazing keenly and rather pityingly at Caroline. "Wonderfully self-supported you look, you solitude-seeking, wounded deer. Are you afraid Shirley will bother you if she discovers that you are hurt?"


"But sometimes you dislike her; often you avoid her. Shirley can feel when she is slighted and shunned. If you had not walked home in the company you did last night, you would have been a different girl to-day. What time did you reach the rectory?"

"But sometimes you dislike her; often you avoid her. Shirley can feel when she is shunned. If you had not walked home in the company you did last night, you would have been a different girl today. What time did you reach the rectory?"


"Humph! You took three-quarters of an hour to walk a mile. Was it you, or Moore, who lingered so?"


"_He_ talked nonsense--that I doubt not; or he looked it, which is a thousand times worse. I see the reflection of his eyes on your forehead at this moment. I feel disposed to call him out, if I could only get a trustworthy second. I feel desperately irritated. I felt so last night, and have felt it all day."

"He talked nonsense - that I doubt not. I feel disposed to call him out - I have felt desperately irritated all day."


"You don't ask me why," she proceeded, after a pause, "you little silent, over-modest thing; and you don't deserve that I should pour out my secrets into your lap without an invitation. Upon my word, I could have found it in my heart to have dogged Moore yesterday evening with dire intent. I have pistols, and can use them."

"You don't ask me why," she went on, after a pause, "you little silent, over-modest thing; and you don't deserve that I should pour out my secrets into your lap. Upon my word, I could have duelled with Moore yesterday. I have pistols, and can use them."


"Stuff, Shirley! Which would you have shot--me or Robert?"

"Stuff, Shirley! Which would you have shot - me or Robert?"


"Neither, perhaps. Perhaps myself--more likely a bat or a tree-bough. He is a puppy, your cousin--a quiet, serious, sensible, judicious, ambitious puppy. I see him standing before me, talking his half-stern, half-gentle talk, bearing me down (as I am very conscious he does) with his fixity of purpose, etc.; and then--I have no patience with him!"

"Neither, perhaps. More likely a bat or a tree. He is a puppy, your cousin - a quiet, serious, ambitious puppy. I see him standing before me, talking his half-stern, half-gentle talk, bearing me down with his set purpose; and then - I have no patience with him!"


Miss Keeldar started off on a rapid walk through the room, repeating energetically that she had no patience with men in general, and with her tenant in particular.

Miss Keeldar started off on a rapid walk through the room.


"You are mistaken," urged Caroline, in some anxiety. "Robert is no puppy or male flirt; I can vouch for that."

"You are mistaken," urged Caroline anxiously. "Robert is no puppy or flirt; I can vouch for that."


"_You_ vouch for it! Do you think I'll take your word on the subject? There is no one's testimony I would not credit sooner than yours. To advance Moore's fortune you would cut off your right hand."

"You vouch for it! Do you think I'll take your word on the subject? To advance Moore's fortune you would cut off your right hand."


"But not tell lies. And if I speak the truth, I must assure you that he was just civil to me last night--that was all."

"But not tell lies. And I assure you that he was just civil to me last night - that was all."


"I never asked what he was. I can guess. I saw him from the window take your hand in his long fingers, just as he went out at my gate."

"I never asked what he was. I can guess. I saw him from the window take your hand."


"That is nothing. I am not a stranger, you know. I am an old acquaintance, and his cousin."

"That is nothing. I am his cousin, you know."


"I feel indignant, and that is the long and short of the matter," responded Miss Keeldar. "All my comfort," she added presently, "is broken up by his manuvres. He keeps intruding between you and me. Without him we should be good friends; but that six feet of puppyhood makes a perpetually-recurring eclipse of our friendship. Again and again he crosses and obscures the disc I want always to see clear; ever and anon he renders me to you a mere bore and nuisance."

"I feel indignant, and that is the long and short of the matter," responded Miss Keeldar. "All my comfort is broken up by his manuvres. He keeps intruding between you and me. Without him we should be good friends; but that six feet of puppyhood perpetually eclipses our friendship. He makes me seem to you a mere bore and a nuisance."


"He does. You did not want my society this afternoon, and I feel it hard. You are naturally somewhat reserved, but I am a social personage, who cannot live alone. If we were but left unmolested, I have that regard for you that I could bear you in my presence for ever, and not for the fraction of a second do I ever wish to be rid of you. You cannot say as much respecting me."

"He does. You did not want my society this afternoon, and I feel it hard. You are naturally somewhat reserved, but I am a sociable person. I have such regard for you that I could have you with me always, and not for a second do I ever wish to be rid of you. You cannot say as much about me."


"Shirley, I can say anything you wish. Shirley, I like you."


"You will wish me at Jericho to-morrow, Lina."


"I shall not. I am every day growing more accustomed to--fonder of you. You know I am too English to get up a vehement friendship all at once; but you are so much better than common--you are so different to every-day young ladies--I esteem you, I value you; you are never a burden to me--never. Do you believe what I say?"

I am every day growing fonder of you. You know I am too English to get up a vehement friendship all at once; but you are so different to everyday young ladies. I esteem you, I value you; you are never a burden to me. Do you believe me?"


"Partly," replied Miss Keeldar, smiling rather incredulously; "but you are a peculiar personage. Quiet as you look, there is both a force and a depth somewhere within not easily reached or appreciated. Then you certainly are not happy."

"Partly," replied Miss Keeldar, smiling rather incredulously; "but quiet as you look, you have hidden depths. Then you are certainly not happy


"And unhappy people are rarely good. Is that what you mean?"


"Not at all. I mean rather that unhappy people are often preoccupied, and not in the mood for discoursing with companions of my nature. Moreover, there is a sort of unhappiness which not only depresses, but corrodes; and that, I fear, is your portion. Will pity do you any good, Lina? If it will, take some from Shirley; she offers largely, and warrants the article genuine."

unhappy people are often preoccupied, and not in the mood for companionship. Moreover, there is a sort of unhappiness which not only depresses, but corrodes; and that, I fear, is your portion. Will pity do you any good, Lina? If it will, take some from Shirley; it is genuine."


"Shirley, I never had a sister--you never had a sister; but it flashes on me at this moment how sisters feel towards each other--affection twined with their life, which no shocks of feeling can uproot, which little quarrels only trample an instant, that it may spring more freshly when the pressure is removed; affection that no passion can ultimately outrival, with which even love itself cannot do more than compete in force and truth. Love hurts us so, Shirley. It is so tormenting, so racking, and it burns away our strength with its flame. In affection is no pain and no fire, only sustenance and balm. I am supported and soothed when you--that is, _you only_--are near, Shirley. Do you believe me now?"

"Shirley, I never had a sister; but it flashes on me how sisters feel towards each other - affection which no shocks can uproot, which little quarrels only trample for an instant; affection that no passion can outrival, with which even love itself cannot do more than compete. Love hurts us so, Shirley. It is so tormenting, so racking, and it burns away our strength with its flame. Affection brings no pain and fire, only sustenance and balm. I am supported and soothed when you are near, Shirley. Do you believe me now?"


"I am always easy of belief when the creed pleases me. We really are friends, then, Lina, in spite of the black eclipse?"


"We really are," returned the other, drawing Shirley towards her, and making her sit down, "chance what may."


"Come, then; we will talk of something else than the Troubler." But at this moment the rector came in, and the "something else" of which Miss Keeldar was about to talk was not again alluded to till the moment of her departure. She then delayed a few minutes in the passage to say, "Caroline, I wish to tell you that I have a great weight on my mind; my conscience is quite uneasy as if I had committed, or was going to commit, a crime. It is not my _private_ conscience, you must understand, but my landed-proprietor and lord-of-the-manor conscience. I have got into the clutch of an eagle with iron talons. I have fallen under a stern influence, which I scarcely approve, but cannot resist. Something will be done ere long, I fear, which it by no means pleases me to think of. To ease my mind, and to prevent harm as far as I can, I mean to enter on a series of good works. Don't be surprised, therefore, if you see me all at once turn outrageously charitable. I have no idea how to begin, but you must give me some advice. We will talk more on the subject to-morrow; and just ask that excellent person, Miss Ainley, to step up to Fieldhead. I have some notion of putting myself under her tuition. Won't she have a precious pupil? Drop a hint to her, Lina, that, though a well-meaning, I am rather a neglected character, and then she will feel less scandalized at my ignorance about clothing societies and such things."

"Come, then; we will talk of something else." But at this moment the rector came in, and the "something else" was not again alluded to till the moment of Shirley's departure. She delayed a few minutes in the passage to say:
"Caroline, I wish to tell you that I have a great weight on my mind; my conscience is uneasy. Not my private conscience, you must understand, but my lord-of-the-manor conscience. I have got into the clutch of an eagle with iron talons. I have fallen under a stern influence, which I cannot resist. Something will be done soon, I fear, which it does not please me to think of. To ease my mind, I mean to enter on good works. Don't be surprised, therefore, if you see me all at once turn outrageously charitable. I have no idea how to begin, but you must give me some advice. We will talk more on the subject tomorrow; and just ask that excellent Miss Ainley to step up to Fieldhead. I have some notion of putting myself under her tuition."


On the morrow Caroline found Shirley sitting gravely at her desk, with an account-book, a bundle of banknotes, and a well-filled purse before her. She was looking mighty serious, but a little puzzled. She said she had been "casting an eye" over the weekly expenditure in housekeeping at the hall, trying to find out where she could retrench; that she had also just given audience to Mrs. Gill, the cook, and had sent that person away with a notion that her (Shirley's) brain was certainly crazed. "I have lectured her on the duty of being careful," said she, "in a way quite new to her. So eloquent was I on the text of economy that I surprised myself; for, you see, it is altogether a fresh idea. I never thought, much less spoke, on the subject till lately. But it is all theory; for when I came to the practical part I could retrench nothing. I had not firmness to take off a single pound of butter, or to prosecute to any clear result an inquest into the destiny of either dripping, lard, bread, cold meat, or other kitchen perquisite whatever. I know we never get up illuminations at Fieldhead, but I could not ask the meaning of sundry quite unaccountable pounds of candles. We do not wash for the parish, yet I viewed in silence items of soap and bleaching-powder calculated to satisfy the solicitude of the most anxious inquirer after our position in reference to those articles. Carnivorous I am not, nor is Mrs. Pryor, nor is Mrs. Gill herself, yet I only hemmed and opened my eyes a little wide when I saw butchers' bills whose figures seemed to prove that fact--falsehood, I mean. Caroline, you may laugh at me, but you can't change me. I am a poltroon on certain points; I feel it. There is a base alloy of moral cowardice in my composition. I blushed and hung my head before Mrs. Gill, when she ought to have been faltering confessions to me. I found it impossible to get up the spirit even to hint, much less to prove, to her that she was a cheat. I have no calm dignity, no true courage about me."

On the morrow Caroline found Shirley sitting gravely at her desk, with an account-book, a bundle of banknotes, and a well-filled purse before her. She was looking mighty serious, but a little puzzled. She said she had been "casting an eye" over the weekly expenditure in housekeeping at the hall, trying to find out where she could retrench; that she had also just seen Mrs. Gill, the cook, and had sent that person away with a notion that her mistress was crazed.
"I have lectured her on the duty of being careful," said she, "in a way quite new to her. I surprised myself; for I never thought about the subject of economy till lately. But it is all theory; for when I came to the practical part, I could not take off a single pound of butter, lard, bread, cold meat, or other kitchen item whatever. And I could not ask the meaning of unaccountable pounds of candles. We do not wash for the parish, yet I viewed in silence bills for enough soap and bleaching-powder to run a laundry. Carnivorous I am not, nor is Mrs. Pryor, yet I only opened my eyes a little wider when I saw the vast butchers' bills. Caroline, you may laugh at me; I am a coward. I blushed and hung my head before Mrs. Gill, when she ought to have been faltering confessions to me. I found it impossible even to hint, much less to prove, that she was a cheat. I have no true courage."


"Shirley, what fit of self-injustice is this? My uncle, who is not given to speak well of women, says there are not ten thousand men in England as genuinely fearless as you."

"Shirley, my uncle says there are not ten thousand men in England as genuinely fearless as you."


"I am fearless, physically; I am never nervous about danger. I was not startled from self-possession when Mr. Wynne's great red bull rose with a bellow before my face, as I was crossing the cowslip lea alone, stooped his begrimed, sullen head, and made a run at me; but I was afraid of seeing Mrs. Gill brought to shame and confusion of face. You have twice--ten times--my strength of mind on certain subjects, Caroline. You, whom no persuasion can induce to pass a bull, however quiet he looks, would have firmly shown my housekeeper she had done wrong; then you would have gently and wisely admonished her; and at last, I dare say, provided she had seemed penitent, you would have very sweetly forgiven her. Of this conduct I am incapable. However, in spite of exaggerated imposition, I still find we live within our means. I have money in hand, and I really must do some good with it. The Briarfield poor are badly off; they must be helped. What ought I to do, think you, Lina? Had I not better distribute the cash at once?"

"I am fearless, physically; I am never nervous about danger. I was not afraid when Mr. Wynne's great bull bellowed and made a run at me, as I was crossing the lea; but I was afraid of seeing Mrs. Gill brought to shame. You have ten times my strength of mind on certain subjects, Caroline. You, whom nothing can induce to pass a bull, however quiet he looks, would have firmly shown my housekeeper she had done wrong; then you would have gently and wisely admonished her; and at last, I dare say, you would have sweetly forgiven her. Of this I am incapable. However, I find we live within our means. I have money in hand, and I really must do some good with it. The Briarfield poor must be helped. What ought I to do, think you, Lina? Had I not better distribute the cash at once?"


"No, indeed, Shirley; you will not manage properly. I have often noticed that your only notion of charity is to give shillings and half-crowns in a careless, free-handed sort of way, which is liable to continual abuse. You must have a prime minister, or you will get yourself into a series of scrapes. You suggested Miss Ainley yourself; to Miss Ainley I will apply. And, meantime, promise to keep quiet, and not begin throwing away your money. What a great deal you have, Shirley! You must feel very rich with all that?"

"No, indeed, Shirley; I have often noticed that your only notion of charity is to give shillings and half-crowns in a careless, free-handed sort of way. You suggested Miss Ainley; to Miss Ainley I will apply. And, meantime, promise to not begin throwing away your money!"


"Yes; I feel of consequence. It is not an immense sum, but I feel responsible for its disposal; and really this responsibility weighs on my mind more heavily than I could have expected. They say that there are some families almost starving to death in Briarfield. Some of my own cottagers are in wretched circumstances. I must and will help them."

"It is not an immense sum, but I feel responsible for its disposal; and really this responsibility weighs heavily on my mind. They say that there are some families starving in Briarfield. I must and will help them.


"Some people say we shouldn't give alms to the poor, Shirley."


"They are great fools for their pains. For those who are not hungry, it is easy to palaver about the degradation of charity, and so on: but they forget the brevity of life, as well as its bitterness. We have none of us long to live. Let us help each other through seasons of want and woe as well as we can, without heeding in the least the scruples of vain philosophy."

We should help each other through seasons of want and woe as well as we can."


"But you do help others, Shirley. You give a great deal as it is."

"You do help others, Shirley. You give a great deal as it is."


"Not enough. I must give more, or, I tell you, my brother's blood will some day be crying to Heaven against me. For, after all, if political incendiaries come here to kindle conflagration in the neighbourhood, and my property is attacked, I shall defend it like a tigress--I know I shall. Let me listen to Mercy as long as she is near me. Her voice once drowned by the shout of ruffian defiance, and I shall be full of impulses to resist and quell. If once the poor gather and rise in the form of the mob, I shall turn against them as an aristocrat; if they bully me, I must defy: if they attack, I must resist, and I will."

"Not enough. I must give more. Let me listen to Mercy as long as she is near me. After all, if my property is attacked, I shall defend it like a tigress. If the poor rise in the form of the mob, I shall turn against them; I must resist them, and I will."


"I feel like Robert, only more fierily. Let them meddle with Robert, or Robert's mill, or Robert's interests, and I shall hate them. At present I am no patrician, nor do I regard the poor around me as plebeians; but if once they violently wrong me or mine, and then presume to dictate to us, I shall quite forget pity for their wretchedness and respect for their poverty, in scorn of their ignorance and wrath at their insolence."

"I feel like Robert, only more fierily. Let them meddle with Robert, or Robert's mill, and I shall hate them. If once they violently wrong me or mine, I shall quite forget pity for their wretchedness."


"Because my soul burns. Would you, any more than me, let Robert be borne down by numbers?"

"Because my soul burns. Would you let Robert be borne down by a mob?"


"If I had your power to aid Robert, I would use it as you mean to use it. If I could be such a friend to him as you can be, I would stand by him, as you mean to stand by him, till death."

"If I had your power to aid Robert, I would use it as you mean to use it. If I could be such a friend to him as you can be, I would stand by him, as you mean to do, till death."


"And now, Lina, though your eyes don't flash, they glow. You drop your lids; but I saw a kindled spark. However, it is not yet come to fighting. What I want to do is to _prevent_ mischief. I cannot forget, either day or night, that these embittered feelings of the poor against the rich have been generated in suffering: they would neither hate nor envy us if they did not deem us so much happier than themselves. To allay this suffering, and thereby lessen this hate, let me, out of my abundance, give abundantly; and that the donation may go farther, let it be made wisely. To that intent, we must introduce some clear, calm, practical sense into our councils. So go and fetch Miss Ainley."

"And now, Lina, your eyes glow. However, it is not yet come to fighting. I want to prevent mischief. I cannot forget that these embittered feelings of the poor have their origin in suffering. To allay this suffering, and thereby lessen their hate, I will give; and I must give wisely. We must introduce some clear, calm, practical sense into our councils. So go and fetch Miss Ainley."


Without another word Caroline put on her bonnet and departed. It may, perhaps, appear strange that neither she nor Shirley thought of consulting Mrs. Pryor on their scheme; but they were wise in abstaining. To have consulted her--and this they knew by instinct--would only have been to involve her in painful embarrassment. She was far better informed, better read, a deeper thinker than Miss Ainley, but of administrative energy, of executive activity, she had none. She would subscribe her own modest mite to a charitable object willingly--secret almsgiving suited her; but in public plans, on a large scale, she could take no part; as to originating them, that was out of the question. This Shirley knew, and therefore she did not trouble Mrs. Pryor by unavailing conferences, which could only remind her of her own deficiencies, and do no good.

Caroline put on her bonnet and departed. It may, perhaps, appear strange that neither she nor Shirley thought of consulting Mrs. Pryor; but they were wise in abstaining. To have consulted her would only have caused her painful embarrassment. She was better read and a deeper thinker than Miss Ainley, but of administrative energy she had none. She would give her own modest mite to charity; but as to forming plans on a large scale, that was out of the question.


It was a bright day for Miss Ainley when she was summoned to Fieldhead to deliberate on projects so congenial to her; when she was seated with all honour and deference at a table with paper, pen, ink, and--what was best of all--cash before her, and requested to draw up a regular plan for administering relief to the destitute poor of Briarfield. She, who knew them all, had studied their wants, had again and again felt in what way they might best be succoured, could the means of succour only be found, was fully competent to the undertaking, and a meek exultation gladdened her kind heart as she felt herself able to answer clearly and promptly the eager questions put by the two young girls, as she showed them in her answers how much and what serviceable knowledge she had acquired of the condition of her fellow-creatures around her.

It was a bright day for Miss Ainley when she was summoned to Fieldhead; when she was seated with all honour and deference at a table with paper, pen and - best of all - cash before her, and requested to draw up a plan for bringing relief to the destitute poor of Briarfield. She, who knew them all, had studied their wants, who had again and again felt how they might best be helped, was fully competent for the task, and a meek exultation gladdened her kind heart as she answered the eager questions put by the two girls.


Shirley placed at her disposal 300, and at sight of the money Miss Ainley's eyes filled with joyful tears; for she already saw the hungry fed, the naked clothed, the sick comforted thereby. She quickly drew up a simple, sensible plan for its expenditure; and she assured them brighter times would now come round, for she doubted not the lady of Fieldhead's example would be followed by others. She should try to get additional subscriptions, and to form a fund; but first she must consult the clergy. Yes, on that point she was peremptory. Mr. Helstone, Dr. Boultby, Mr. Hall, _must_ be consulted (for not only must Briarfield be relieved, but Whinbury and Nunnely). It would, she averred, be presumption in her to take a single step unauthorized by them.

Shirley placed at her disposal 300, at which Miss Ainley's eyes filled with joyful tears. She quickly drew up a simple, sensible plan for its expenditure; and she doubted not that the lady of Fieldhead's example would be followed by others. She should try to get additional subscriptions, and to form a fund; but first she must consult the clergy. Yes, Mr. Helstone, Dr. Boultby and Mr. Hall must be consulted (for not only must Briarfield be relieved, but Whinbury and Nunnely). She would not take a single step unauthorized by them.


The clergy were sacred beings in Miss Ainley's eyes; no matter what might be the insignificance of the individual, his station made him holy. The very curates--who, in their trivial arrogance, were hardly worthy to tie her patten-strings, or carry her cotton umbrella, or check woollen shawl--she, in her pure, sincere enthusiasm, looked upon as sucking saints. No matter how clearly their little vices and enormous absurdities were pointed out to her, she could not see them; she was blind to ecclesiastical defects; the white surplice covered a multitude of sins.

The clergy were sacred beings in Miss Ainley's eyes; no matter how insignificant the individual, his station made him holy. The very curates - who, in their trivial arrogance, were hardly worthy to carry her umbrella - were regarded by her as infant saints. If their little vices and enormous absurdities were pointed out to her, she could not see them; the white surplice covered a multitude of sins.


Shirley, knowing this harmless infatuation on the part of her recently-chosen prime minister, stipulated expressly that the curates were to have no voice in the disposal of the money, that their meddling fingers were not to be inserted into the pie. The rectors, of course, must be paramount, and they might be trusted. They had some experience, some sagacity, and Mr. Hall, at least, had sympathy and loving-kindness for his fellow-men; but as for the youth under them, they must be set aside, kept down, and taught that subordination and silence best became their years and capacity.

Shirley, knowing of this harmless infatuation, stipulated that the curates were to have no voice in the disposal of the money; their meddling fingers were not to be inserted into the pie. The rectors, of course, might be trusted. They had experience and sagacity, and Mr. Hall, at least, had sympathy for his fellow-men; but the youth under them must be kept down in subordination and silence.


It was with some horror Miss Ainley heard this language. Caroline, however, interposing with a mild word or two in praise of Mr Sweeting, calmed her again. Sweeting was, indeed, her own favourite. She endeavoured to respect Messrs. Malone and Donne, but the slices of sponge-cake and glasses of cowslip or primrose wine she had at different times administered to Sweeting, when he came to see her in her little cottage, were ever offered with sentiments of truly motherly regard. The same innocuous collation she had once presented to Malone; but that personage evinced such open scorn of the offering, she had never ventured to renew it. To Donne she always served the treat, and was happy to see his approbation of it proved beyond a doubt by the fact of his usually eating two pieces of cake, and putting a third in his pocket.

It was with some horror that Miss Ainley heard this language. Caroline, however, putting in a mild word or two in praise of Mr Sweeting, calmed her again. Sweeting was, indeed, Miss Ainley's own favourite. She had at times offered him sponge-cake and glasses of cowslip wine, when he came to see her in her little cottage, with truly motherly regard. The same offerings she had once presented to Malone; but he showed such open scorn that she had never repeated it. To Donne she always served the treat, and was happy to see his approbation proved by his eating two pieces of cake, and putting a third in his pocket.


Indefatigable in her exertions where good was to be done, Miss Ainley would immediately have set out on a walk of ten miles round to the three rectors, in order to show her plan, and humbly solicit their approval; but Miss Keeldar interdicted this, and proposed, as an amendment, to collect the clergy in a small select reunion that evening at Fieldhead. Miss Ainley was to meet them, and the plan was to be discussed in full privy council.

Miss Keeldar proposed to collect the clergy together that evening at Fieldhead. Miss Ainley was to meet them, and the plan was to be discussed.


Shirley managed to get the senior priesthood together accordingly, and before the old maid's arrival, she had, further, talked all the gentlemen into the most charming mood imaginable. She herself had taken in hand Dr. Boultby and Mr. Helstone. The first was a stubborn old Welshman, hot, opinionated, and obstinate, but withal a man who did a great deal of good, though not without making some noise about it. The latter we know. She had rather a friendly feeling for both, especially for old Helstone; and it cost her no trouble to be quite delightful to them. She took them round the garden; she gathered them flowers; she was like a kind daughter to them. Mr. Hall she left to Caroline--or rather, it was to Caroline's care Mr. Hall consigned himself.

Shirley managed to get the senior priesthood together accordingly, and before the old maid's arrival, she had talked all the gentlemen into the most charming mood imaginable. She herself had taken in hand Dr. Boultby and Mr. Helstone. The first was a stubborn old Welshman, opinionated and obstinate, yet a man who did a great deal of good, though not without making some noise about it. The latter we know. She had rather a friendly feeling for both, especially for old Helstone; and it cost her no trouble to be quite delightful to them. She took them round the garden, and gathered them flowers, like a kind daughter. Mr. Hall she left to Caroline - or rather, to Caroline Mr. Hall consigned himself.


He generally sought Caroline in every party where she and he happened to be. He was not in general a lady's man, though all ladies liked him; something of a book-worm he was, near-sighted, spectacled, now and then abstracted. To old ladies he was kind as a son. To men of every occupation and grade he was acceptable. The truth, simplicity, frankness of his manners, the nobleness of his integrity, the reality and elevation of his piety, won him friends in every grade. His poor clerk and sexton delighted in him; the noble patron of his living esteemed him highly. It was only with young, handsome, fashionable, and stylish ladies he felt a little shy. Being himself a plain man--plain in aspect, plain in manners, plain in speech--he seemed to fear their dash, elegance, and airs. But Miss Helstone had neither dash nor airs, and her native elegance was of a very quiet order--quiet as the beauty of a ground-loving hedge-flower. He was a fluent, cheerful, agreeable talker. Caroline could talk too in a _tte--tte_. She liked Mr. Hall to come and take the seat next her in a party, and thus secure her from Peter Augustus Malone, Joseph Donne, or John Sykes; and Mr. Hall never failed to avail himself of this privilege when he possibly could. Such preference shown by a single gentleman to a single lady would certainly, in ordinary cases, have set in motion the tongues of the gossips; but Cyril Hall was forty-five years old, slightly bald, and slightly gray, and nobody ever said or thought he was likely to be married to Miss Helstone. Nor did he think so himself. He was wedded already to his books and his parish. His kind sister Margaret, spectacled and learned like himself, made him happy in his single state; he considered it too late to change. Besides, he had known Caroline as a pretty little girl. She had sat on his knee many a time; he had bought her toys and given her books; he felt that her friendship for him was mixed with a sort of filial respect; he could not have brought himself to attempt to give another colour to her sentiments, and his serene mind could glass a fair image without feeling its depths troubled by the reflection.

He generally sought Caroline in every gathering where they both happened to be. He was not a lady's man, though all ladies liked him; he was something of a book-worm. His frankness, integrity and piety won him friends at every level. It was only with young, fashionable ladies he felt a little shy. Being himself a plain man - plain in appearance, manners and speech - he seemed to fear their dash, elegance, and airs.
But Miss Helstone had neither dash nor airs, and her elegance was of a very quiet order. Mr. Hall was a fluent, cheerful talker, and Caroline liked him to sit next to her in a party, and thus keep her safe from Peter Malone, Joseph Donne, or John Sykes; and Mr. Hall availed himself of this privilege whenever he could. Such preference shown by a single gentleman to a single lady would normally have set the gossips talking; but as Cyril Hall was forty-five, slightly bald, and slightly grey, nobody ever thought he was likely to marry Miss Helstone. Nor did he think so himself. He was wedded already to his books and his parish. His kind sister Margaret, spectacled and learned like himself, made him happy in his single state; he considered it too late to change. Besides, he had known Caroline as a little girl; he had bought her toys, and felt that her friendship for him held a daughterly respect.