Shirley
pious man never was a workman of yours, Moore. He's a tailor by trade."
"And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for interfering and setting my
discarded men against me."
"And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro' Moor? He went
there, wooden leg and all?"
"Ay, sir," said Joe; "he went there on horseback, that his leg mightn't
be noticed. He was the captain, and wore a mask. The rest only had their
faces blackened."
"And how was he found out?"
"I'll tell you, sir," said Joe. "T' maister's not so fond of talking.
I've no objections. He courted Sarah, Mr. Moore's sarvant lass, and so
it seems she would have nothing to say to him; she either didn't like
his wooden leg or she'd some notion about his being a hypocrite. Happen
(for women is queer hands; we may say that amang werseln when there's
none of 'em nigh) she'd have encouraged him, in spite of his leg and his
deceit, just to pass time like. I've known some on 'em do as mich, and
some o' t' bonniest and mimmest-looking, too--ay, I've seen clean, trim
young things, that looked as denty and pure as daisies, and wi' time a
body fun' 'em out to be nowt but stinging, venomed nettles."
"Joe's a sensible fellow," interjected Helstone.
"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."
"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."
A gig was heard to roll into the yard. Mr. Sykes entered--a tall stout
man of about fifty, comely of feature, but feeble of physiognomy. He
looked anxious.
"Have they been? Are they gone? Have you got him? Is it over?" he asked.
"Not yet," returned Moore with phlegm. "We are waiting for them."
"They'll not come; it's near noon. Better give it up. It will excite bad
feeling--make a stir--cause perhaps fatal consequences."
"_You_ need not appear," said Moore. "I shall meet them in the yard when
they come; _you_ can stay here."
"But my name must be seen in the law proceedings. A wife and family, Mr.
Moore--a wife and family make a man cautious."
Moore looked disgusted. "Give way, if you please," said he; "leave me to
myself. I have no objection to act alone; only be assured you will not
find safety in submission. Your partner Pearson gave way, and conceded,
and forbore. Well, that did not prevent them from attempting to shoot
him in his own house."
"My dear sir, take a little wine and water," recommended Mr. Helstone.
The wine and water was hollands and water, as Mr. Sykes discovered when
he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof. It
transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face,
and made him at least _word_-valiant. He now announced that he hoped he
was above being trampled on by the common people; he was determined to
endure the insolence of the working-classes no longer; he had considered
of it, and made up his mind to go all lengths; if money and spirit could
put down these rioters, they should be put down; Mr. Moore might do as
he liked, but _he_--Christie Sykes--would spend his last penny in law
before he would be beaten; he'd settle them, or he'd see.
"Take another glass," urged Moore.
Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did. This was a cold morning (Sugden had
found it a warm one); it was necessary to be careful at this season of
the year--it was proper to take something to keep the damp out; he had a
little cough already (here he coughed in attestation of the fact);
something of this sort (lifting the black bottle) was excellent, taken
medicinally (he poured the physic into his tumbler); he didn't make a
practice of drinking spirits in a morning, but occasionally it really
was prudent to take precautions.
"Quite prudent, and take them by all means," urged the host.
Mr. Sykes now addressed Mr. Helstone, who stood on the hearth, his
shovel-hat on his head, watching him significantly with his little, keen
eyes.
"You, sir, as a clergyman," said he, "may feel it disagreeable to be
present amidst scenes of hurry and flurry, and, I may say, peril. I dare
say your nerves won't stand it. You're a man of peace, sir; but we
manufacturers, living in the world, and always in turmoil, get quite
belligerent. Really, there's an ardour excited by the thoughts of danger
that makes my heart pant. When Mrs. Sykes is afraid of the house being
attacked and broke open--as she is every night--I get quite excited. I
couldn't describe to you, sir, my feelings. Really, if anybody was to
come--thieves or anything--I believe I should enjoy it, such is my
spirit."
The hardest of laughs, though brief and low, and by no means insulting,
was the response of the rector. Moore would have pressed upon the heroic
mill-owner a third tumbler, but the clergyman, who never transgressed,
nor would suffer others in his presence to transgress, the bounds of
decorum, checked him.
"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 Chénier?
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.
A sort of gathering and trampling sound was heard in the yard, and then
a pause. Moore walked to the window; Helstone followed. Both stood on
one side, the tall junior behind the under-sized senior, looking forth
carefully, so that they might not be visible from without. Their sole
comment on what they saw was a cynical smile flashed into each other's
stern eyes.
A flourishing oratorical cough was now heard, followed by the
interjection "Whisht!" designed, as it seemed, to still the hum of
several voices. Moore opened his casement an inch or two to admit sound
more freely.
"Joseph Scott," began a snuffling voice--Scott was standing sentinel at
the counting-house door--"might we inquire if your master be within, and
is to be spoken to?"
"He's within, ay," said Joe nonchalantly.
"Would you then, if _you_ please" (emphasis on "you"), "have the
goodness to tell _him_ that twelve gentlemen wants to see him."
"He'd happen ax what for," suggested Joe. "I mught as weel tell him that
at t' same time."
"For a purpose," was the answer. Joe entered.
"Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to see ye, 'for a
purpose.'"
"Good, Joe; I'm their man.--Sugden, come when I whistle."
Moore went out, chuckling dryly. He advanced into the yard, one hand in
his pocket, the other in his waistcoat, his cap brim over his eyes,
shading in some measure their deep dancing ray of scorn. Twelve men
waited in the yard, some in their shirt-sleeves, some in blue aprons.
Two figured conspicuously in the van of the party. One, a little dapper
strutting man with a turned-up nose; the other a broad-shouldered
fellow, distinguished no less by his demure face and cat like, trustless
eyes than by a wooden leg and stout crutch. There was a kind of leer
about his lips; he seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or
thing; his whole air was anything but that of a true man.
"Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough," said Moore debonairly, for him.
"Peace be unto you!" was the answer, Mr. Barraclough entirely closing
his naturally half-shut eyes as he delivered it.
"I'm obliged to you. Peace is an excellent thing; there's nothing I more
wish for myself. But that is not all you have to say to me, I suppose? I
imagine peace is not your purpose?"
"As to our purpose," began Barraclough, "it's one that may sound strange
and perhaps foolish to ears like yours, for the childer of this world is
wiser in their generation than the childer of light."
"To the point, if you please, and let me hear what it is."
"Ye'se hear, sir. If I cannot get it off, there's eleven behint can help
me. It is a grand purpose, and" (changing his voice from a half-sneer to
a whine) "it's the Looard's own purpose, and that's better."
"Do you want a subscription to a new Ranter's chapel, Mr. Barraclough?
Unless your errand be something of that sort, I cannot see what you have
to do with it."
"I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; but as Providence has led ye to
mention the subject, I'll make it i' my way to tak ony trifle ye may
have to spare; the smallest contribution will be acceptable."
With that he doffed his hat, and held it out as a begging-box, a brazen
grin at the same time crossing his countenance.
"If I gave you sixpence you would drink it."
Barraclough uplifted the palms of his hands and the whites of his eyes,
evincing in the gesture a mere burlesque of hypocrisy.