Shirley
his life was not worth an hour's purchase if he did.
"I'll tell him that," said Mr. Yorke, when his foreman mentioned the
rumour; "and if _that_ does not bring him home full gallop, nothing
will."
Either that or some other motive prevailed at last to recall him. He
announced to Joe Scott the day he should arrive at Stilbro', desiring
his hackney to be sent to the George for his accommodation; and Joe
Scott having informed Mr. Yorke, that gentleman made it in his way to
meet him.
It was market-day. Moore arrived in time to take his usual place at the
market dinner. As something of a stranger, and as a man of note and
action, the assembled manufacturers received him with a certain
distinction. Some, who in public would scarcely have dared to
acknowledge his acquaintance, lest a little of the hate and vengeance
laid up in store for him should perchance have fallen on them, in
private hailed him as in some sort their champion. When the wine had
circulated, their respect would have kindled to enthusiasm had not
Moore's unshaken nonchalance held it in a damp, low, smouldering state.
Mr. Yorke, the permanent president of these dinners, witnessed his young
friend's bearing with exceeding complacency. If one thing could stir his
temper or excite his contempt more than another, it was to see a man
befooled by flattery or elate with popularity. If one thing smoothed,
soothed, and charmed him especially, it was the spectacle of a public
character incapable of relishing his publicity--_incapable_, I say.
Disdain would but have incensed; it was indifference that appeased his
rough spirit.
Robert, leaning back in his chair, quiet and almost surly, while the
clothiers and blanket-makers vaunted his prowess and rehearsed his
deeds--many of them interspersing their flatteries with coarse
invectives against the operative class--was a delectable sight for Mr.
Yorke. His heart tingled with the pleasing conviction that these gross
eulogiums shamed Moore deeply, and made him half scorn himself and his
work. On abuse, on reproach, on calumny, it is easy to smile; but
painful indeed is the panegyric of those we contemn. Often had Moore
gazed with a brilliant countenance over howling crowds from a hostile
hustings. He had breasted the storm of unpopularity with gallant bearing
and soul elate; but he drooped his head under the half-bred tradesmen's
praise, and shrank chagrined before their congratulations.
Yorke could not help asking him how he liked his supporters, and whether
he did not think they did honour to his cause. "But it is a pity, lad,"
he added, "that you did not hang these four samples of the unwashed. If
you had managed _that_ feat, the gentry here would have riven the horses
out of the coach, yoked to a score of asses, and drawn you into Stilbro'
like a conquering general."
Moore soon forsook the wine, broke from the party, and took the road.
In less than five minutes Mr. Yorke followed him. They rode out of
Stilbro' together.
It was early to go home, but yet it was late in the day. The last ray of
the sun had already faded from the cloud-edges, and the October night
was casting over the moorlands the shadow of her approach.
Mr. Yorke, moderately exhilarated with his moderate libations, and not
displeased to see young Moore again in Yorkshire, and to have him for
his comrade during the long ride home, took the discourse much to
himself. He touched briefly, but scoffingly, on the trials and the
conviction; he passed thence to the gossip of the neighbourhood, and ere
long he attacked Moore on his own personal concerns.
"Bob, I believe you are worsted, and you deserve it. All was smooth.
Fortune had fallen in love with you. She had decreed you the first prize
in her wheel--twenty thousand pounds; she only required that you should
hold your hand out and take it. And what did you do? You called for a
horse and rode a-hunting to Warwickshire. Your sweetheart--Fortune, I
mean--was perfectly indulgent. She said, 'I'll excuse him; he's young.'
She waited, like 'Patience on a monument,' till the chase was over and
the vermin-prey run down. She expected you would come back then, and be
a good lad. You might still have had her first prize.
"It capped her beyond expression, and me too, to find that, instead of
thundering home in a breakneck gallop and laying your assize laurels at
her feet, you coolly took coach up to London. What you have done there
Satan knows; nothing in this world, I believe, but sat and sulked. Your
face was never lily fair, but it is olive green now. You're not as bonny
as you were, man."
"And who is to have this prize you talk so much about?"
"Only a baronet; that is all. I have not a doubt in my own mind you've
lost her. She will be Lady Nunnely before Christmas."
"Hem! Quite probable."
"But she need not to have been. Fool of a lad! I swear you might have
had her."
"By what token, Mr. Yorke?"
"By every token--by the light of her eyes, the red of her cheeks. Red
they grew when your name was mentioned, though of custom they are pale."
"My chance is quite over, I suppose?"
"It ought to be. But try; it is worth trying. I call this Sir Philip
milk and water. And then he writes verses, they say--tags rhymes. _You_
are above that, Bob, at all events."
"Would you advise me to propose, late as it is, Mr. Yorke--at the
eleventh hour?"
"You can but make the experiment, Robert. If she has a fancy for
you--and, on my conscience, I believe she has or had--she will forgive
much. But, my lad, you are laughing. Is it at me? You had better grin at
your own perverseness. I see, however, you laugh at the wrong side of
your mouth. You have as sour a look at this moment as one need wish to
see."
"I have so quarrelled with myself, Yorke. I have so kicked against the
pricks, and struggled in a strait waistcoat, and dislocated my wrists
with wrenching them in handcuffs, and battered my hard head by driving
it against a harder wall."
"Ha! I'm glad to hear that. Sharp exercise yon! I hope it has done you
good--ta'en some of the self-conceit out of you?"
"Self-conceit? What is it? Self-respect, self-tolerance even, what are
they? Do you sell the articles? Do you know anybody who does? Give an
indication. They would find in me a liberal chapman. I would part with
my last guinea this minute to buy."
"Is it so with you, Robert? I find that spicy. I like a man to speak his
mind. What has gone wrong?"
"The machinery of all my nature; the whole enginery of this human mill;
the boiler, which I take to be the heart, is fit to burst."
"That suld be putten i' print; it's striking. It's almost blank verse.
Ye'll be jingling into poetry just e'now. If the afflatus comes, give
way, Robert. Never heed me; I'll bear it this whet [time]."
"Hideous, abhorrent, base blunder! You may commit in a moment what you
will rue for years--what life cannot cancel."
"Lad, go on. I call it pie, nuts, sugar-candy. I like the taste
uncommonly. Go on. It will do you good to talk. The moor is before us
now, and there is no life for many a mile round."
"I _will_ talk. I am not ashamed to tell. There is a sort of wild cat in
my breast, and I choose that you shall hear how it can yell."
"To me it is music. What grand voices you and Louis have! When Louis
sings--tones off like a soft, deep bell--I've felt myself tremble again.
The night is still. It listens. It is just leaning down to you, like a
black priest to a blacker penitent. Confess, lad. Smooth naught down. Be
candid as a convicted, justified, sanctified Methody at an experience
meeting. Make yourself as wicked as Beelzebub. It will ease your mind."
"As mean as Mammon, you would say. Yorke, if I got off horseback and
laid myself down across the road, would you have the goodness to gallop
over me, backwards and forwards, about twenty times?"
"Wi' all the pleasure in life, if there were no such thing as a
coroner's inquest."
"Hiram Yorke, I certainly believed she loved me. I have seen her eyes
sparkle radiantly when she has found me out in a crowd; she has flushed
up crimson when she has offered me her hand, and said, 'How do you do,
Mr. Moore?'
"My name had a magical influence over her. When others uttered it she
changed countenance--I know she did. She pronounced it herself in the
most musical of her many musical tones. She was cordial to me; she took
an interest in me; she was anxious about me; she wished me well; she
sought, she seized every opportunity to benefit me. I considered,
paused, watched, weighed, wondered. I could come to but one
conclusion--this is love.
"I looked at her, Yorke. I saw in her youth and a species of beauty. I
saw power in her. Her wealth offered me the redemption of my honour and
my standing. I owed her gratitude. She had aided me substantially and
effectually by a loan of five thousand pounds. Could I remember these
things? Could I believe she loved me? Could I hear wisdom urge me to
marry her, and disregard every dear advantage, disbelieve every
flattering suggestion, disdain every well-weighed counsel, turn and
leave her? Young, graceful, gracious--my benefactress, attached to me,
enamoured of me. I used to say so to myself; dwell on the word; mouth it
over and over again; swell over it with a pleasant, pompous complacency,
with an admiration dedicated entirely to myself, and unimpaired even by
esteem for her; indeed I smiled in deep secrecy at her _naïveté_ and
simplicity in being the first to love, and to show it. That whip of
yours seems to have a good heavy handle, Yorke; you can swing it about
your head and knock me out of the saddle, if you choose. I should rather
relish a loundering whack."
"Tak patience, Robert, till the moon rises and I can see you. Speak
plain out--did you love her or not? I could like to know. I feel
curious."
"Sir--sir--I say--she is very pretty, in her own style, and very
attractive. She has a look, at times, of a thing made out of fire and
air, at which I stand and marvel, without a thought of clasping and
kissing it. I felt in her a powerful magnet to my interest and vanity. I
never felt as if nature meant her to be my other and better self. When a
question on that head rushed upon me, I flung it off, saying brutally I
should be rich with her and ruined without her--vowing I would be
practical, and not romantic."
"A very sensible resolve. What mischief came of it, Bob?"
"With this sensible resolve I walked up to Fieldhead one night last
August. It was the very eve of my departure for Birmingham; for, you
see, I wanted to secure Fortune's splendid prize. I had previously
dispatched a note requesting a private interview. I found her at home,
and alone.
"She received me without embarrassment, for she thought I came on
business. _I_ was embarrassed enough, but determined. I hardly know how
I got the operation over; but I went to work in a hard, firm
fashion--frightful enough, I dare say. I sternly offered myself--my fine
person--with my debts, of course, as a settlement.
"It vexed me, it kindled my ire, to find that she neither blushed,
trembled, nor looked down. She responded, 'I doubt whether I have
understood you, Mr. Moore.'
"And I had to go over the whole proposal twice, and word it as plainly
as A B C, before she would fully take it in. And then, what did she do?
Instead of faltering a sweet Yes, or maintaining a soft, confused
silence (which would have been as good), she started up, walked twice
fast through the room, in the way that _she_ only does, and no other
woman, and ejaculated, 'God bless me!'
"Yorke, I stood on the hearth, backed by the mantelpiece; against it I
leaned, and prepared for anything--everything. I knew my doom, and I
knew myself. There was no misunderstanding her aspect and voice. She
stopped and looked at me.