Shirley

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER V.

  HOLLOW'S COTTAGE.

  Moore's good spirits were still with him when he rose next morning. Heand Joe Scott had both spent the night in the mill, availing themselvesof certain sleeping accommodations producible from recesses in the frontand back counting-houses. The master, always an early riser, was upsomewhat sooner even than usual. He awoke his man by singing a Frenchsong as he made his toilet.

  "Ye're not custen dahn, then, maister?" cried Joe.

  "Not a stiver, mon garcon--which means, my lad. Get up, and we'll take aturn through the mill before the hands come in, and I'll explain myfuture plans. We'll have the machinery yet, Joseph. You never heard ofBruce, perhaps?"

  "And th' arrand (spider)? Yes, but I hev. I've read th' history o'Scotland, and happen knaw as mich on't as ye; and I understand ye tomean to say ye'll persevere."

  "I do."

  "Is there mony o' your mak' i' your country?" inquired Joe, as he foldedup his temporary bed, and put it away.

  "In my country! Which is my country?"

  "Why, France--isn't it?"

  "Not it, indeed! The circumstance of the French having seized Antwerp,where I was born, does not make me a Frenchman."

  "Holland, then?"

  "I am not a Dutchman. Now you are confounding Antwerp with Amsterdam."

  "Flanders?"

  "I scorn the insinuation, Joe! I a Flamand! Have I a Flemish face--theclumsy nose standing out, the mean forehead falling back, the pale blueeyes 'a fleur de tete'? Am I all body and no legs, like a Flamand? Butyou don't know what they are like, those Netherlanders. Joe, I'm anAnversois. My mother was an Anversoise, though she came of Frenchlineage, which is the reason I speak French."

  "But your father war Yorkshire, which maks ye a bit Yorkshire too; andonybody may see ye're akin to us, ye're so keen o' making brass, andgetting forrards."

  "Joe, you're an impudent dog; but I've always been accustomed to aboorish sort of insolence from my youth up. The 'classe ouvriere'--thatis, the working people in Belgium--bear themselves brutally towardstheir employers; and by _brutally_, Joe, I mean _brutalement_--which,perhaps, when properly translated, should be _roughly_."

  "We allus speak our minds i' this country; and them young parsons andgrand folk fro' London is shocked at wer 'incivility;' and we like weelenough to gi'e 'em summat to be shocked at, 'cause it's sport to us towatch 'em turn up the whites o' their een, and spreed out their bits o'hands, like as they're flayed wi' bogards, and then to hear 'em say,nipping off their words short like, 'Dear! dear! Whet seveges! How verycorse!'"

  "You _are_ savages, Joe. You don't suppose you're civilized, do you?"

  "Middling, middling, maister. I reckon 'at us manufacturing lads i' th'north is a deal more intelligent, and knaws a deal more nor th' farmingfolk i' th' south. Trade sharpens wer wits; and them that's mechanicslike me is forced to think. Ye know, what wi' looking after machineryand sich like, I've getten into that way that when I see an effect, Ilook straight out for a cause, and I oft lig hold on't to purpose; andthen I like reading, and I'm curious to knaw what them that reckons togovern us aims to do for us and wi' us. And there's many 'cuter nor me;there's many a one amang them greasy chaps 'at smells o' oil, and amangthem dyers wi' blue and black skins, that has a long head, and that cantell what a fooil of a law is, as well as ye or old Yorke, and a dealbetter nor soft uns like Christopher Sykes o' Whinbury, and greethectoring nowts like yond' Irish Peter, Helstone's curate."

  "You think yourself a clever fellow, I know, Scott."

  "Ay! I'm fairish. I can tell cheese fro' chalk, and I'm varry weel awarethat I've improved sich opportunities as I have had, a deal better norsome 'at reckons to be aboon me; but there's thousands i' Yorkshirethat's as good as me, and a two-three that's better."

  "You're a great man--you're a sublime fellow; but you're a prig, aconceited noodle with it all, Joe! You need not to think that becauseyou've picked up a little knowledge of practical mathematics, andbecause you have found some scantling of the elements of chemistry atthe bottom of a dyeing vat, that therefore you're a neglected man ofscience; and you need not to suppose that because the course of tradedoes not always run smooth, and you, and such as you, are sometimesshort of work and of bread, that therefore your class are martyrs, andthat the whole form of government under which you live is wrong. And,moreover, you need not for a moment to insinuate that the virtues havetaken refuge in cottages and wholly abandoned slated houses. Let me tellyou, I particularly abominate that sort of trash, because I know so wellthat human nature is human nature everywhere, whether under tile orthatch, and that in every specimen of human nature that breathes, viceand virtue are ever found blended, in smaller or greater proportions,and that the proportion is not determined by station. I have seenvillains who were rich, and I have seen villains who were poor, and Ihave seen villains who were neither rich nor poor, but who had realizedAgar's wish, and lived in fair and modest competency. The clock is goingto strike six. Away with you, Joe, and ring the mill bell."

  It was now the middle of the month of February; by six o'clock thereforedawn was just beginning to steal on night, to penetrate with a pale rayits brown obscurity, and give a demi-translucence to its opaque shadows.Pale enough that ray was on this particular morning: no colour tingedthe east, no flush warmed it. To see what a heavy lid day slowly lifted,what a wan glance she flung along the hills, you would have thought thesun's fire quenched in last night's floods. The breath of this morningwas chill as its aspect; a raw wind stirred the mass of night-cloud, andshowed, as it slowly rose, leaving a colourless, silver-gleaming ringall round the horizon, not blue sky, but a stratum of paler vapourbeyond. It had ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden, and the poolsand rivulets were full.

  The mill-windows were alight, the bell still rung loud, and now thelittle children came running in, in too great a hurry, let us hope, tofeel very much nipped by the inclement air; and indeed, by contrast,perhaps the morning appeared rather favourable to them than otherwise,for they had often come to their work that winter through snow-storms,through heavy rain, through hard frost.

  Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them pass. He counted them asthey went by. To those who came rather late he said a word of reprimand,which was a little more sharply repeated by Joe Scott when the lingerersreached the work-rooms. Neither master nor overlooker spoke savagely.They were not savage men either of them, though it appeared both wererigid, for they fined a delinquent who came considerably too late. Mr.Moore made him pay his penny down ere he entered, and informed him thatthe next repetition of the fault would cost him twopence.

  Rules, no doubt, are necessary in such cases, and coarse and cruelmasters will make coarse and cruel rules, which, at the time we treat ofat least, they used sometimes to enforce tyrannically; but though Idescribe imperfect characters (every character in this book will befound to be more or less imperfect, my pen refusing to draw anything inthe model line), I have not undertaken to handle degraded or utterlyinfamous ones. Child-torturers, slave masters and drivers, I consign tothe hands of jailers. The novelist may be excused from sullying his pagewith the record of their deeds.

  Instead, then, of harrowing up my reader's soul and delighting his organof wonder with effective descriptions of stripes and scourgings, I amhappy to be able to inform him that neither Mr. Moore nor his overlookerever struck a child in their mill. Joe had, indeed, once very severelyflogged a son of his own for telling a lie and persisting in it; but,like his employer, he was too phlegmatic, too calm, as well as tooreasonable a man, to make corporal chastisement other than the exceptionto his treatment of the young.

  Mr. Moore haunted his mill, his mill-yard, his dye-house, and hiswarehouse till the sickly dawn strengthened into day. The sun evenrose--at least a white disc, clear, tintless, and almost chill-lookingas ice, peeped over the dark crest of a hill, changed to silver thelivid edge of the cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the wholelength of the den, or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are at
present limited. It was eight o'clock; the mill lights were allextinguished; the signal was given for breakfast; the children, releasedfor half an hour from toil, betook themselves to the little tin canswhich held their coffee, and to the small baskets which contained theirallowance of bread. Let us hope they have enough to eat; it would be apity were it otherwise.

  And now at last Mr. Moore quitted the mill-yard, and bent his steps tohis dwelling-house. It was only a short distance from the factory, butthe hedge and high bank on each side of the lane which conducted to itseemed to give it something of the appearance and feeling of seclusion.It was a small, whitewashed place, with a green porch over the door;scanty brown stalks showed in the garden soil near this porch, andlikewise beneath the windows--stalks budless and flowerless now, butgiving dim prediction of trained and blooming creepers for summer days.A grass plat and borders fronted the cottage. The borders presented onlyblack mould yet, except where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots ofsnowdrop or crocus peeped, green as emerald, from the earth. The springwas late; it had been a severe and prolonged winter; the last deep snowhad but just disappeared before yesterday's rains; on the hills, indeed,white remnants of it yet gleamed, flecking the hollows and crowning thepeaks; the lawn was not verdant, but bleached, as was the grass on thebank, and under the hedge in the lane. Three trees, gracefully grouped,rose beside the cottage. They were not lofty, but having no rivals near,they looked well and imposing where they grew. Such was Mr. Moore'shome--a snug nest for content and contemplation, but one within whichthe wings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.

  Its air of modest comfort seemed to possess no particular attraction forits owner. Instead of entering the house at once he fetched a spade froma little shed and began to work in the garden. For about a quarter of anhour he dug on uninterrupted. At length, however, a window opened, and afemale voice called to him,--

  "Eh, bien! Tu ne dejeunes pas ce matin?"

  The answer, and the rest of the conversation, was in French; but as thisis an English book, I shall translate it into English.

  "Is breakfast ready, Hortense?"

  "Certainly; it has been ready half an hour."

  "Then I am ready too. I have a canine hunger."

  He threw down his spade, and entered the house. The narrow passageconducted him to a small parlour, where a breakfast of coffee and breadand butter, with the somewhat un-English accompaniment of stewed pears,was spread on the table. Over these viands presided the lady who hadspoken from the window. I must describe her before I go any farther.

  She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore--perhaps she was thirty-five,tall, and proportionately stout; she had very black hair, for thepresent twisted up in curl-papers, a high colour in her cheeks, a smallnose, a pair of little black eyes. The lower part of her face was largein proportion to the upper; her forehead was small and rathercorrugated; she had a fretful though not an ill-natured expression ofcountenance; there was something in her whole appearance one feltinclined to be half provoked with and half amused at. The strangestpoint was her dress--a stuff petticoat and a striped cotton camisole.The petticoat was short, displaying well a pair of feet and ankles whichleft much to be desired in the article of symmetry.

  You will think I have depicted a remarkable slattern, reader. Not atall. Hortense Moore (she was Mr. Moore's sister) was a very orderly,economical person. The petticoat, camisole, and curl-papers were hermorning costume, in which, of forenoons, she had always been accustomedto "go her household ways" in her own country. She did not choose toadopt English fashions because she was obliged to live in England; sheadhered to her old Belgian modes, quite satisfied that there was a meritin so doing.

  Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself--an opinion not whollyundeserved, for she possessed some good and sterling qualities; but sherather over-estimated the kind and degree of these qualities, and quiteleft out of the account sundry little defects which accompanied them.You could never have persuaded her that she was a prejudiced andnarrow-minded person, that she was too susceptible on the subject of herown dignity and importance, and too apt to take offence about trifles;yet all this was true. However, where her claims to distinction were notopposed, and where her prejudices were not offended, she could be kindand friendly enough. To her two brothers (for there was another GerardMoore besides Robert) she was very much attached. As the sole remainingrepresentatives of their decayed family, the persons of both were almostsacred in her eyes. Of Louis, however, she knew less than of Robert. Hehad been sent to England when a mere boy, and had received his educationat an English school. His education not being such as to adapt him fortrade, perhaps, too, his natural bent not inclining him to mercantilepursuits, he had, when the blight of hereditary prospects rendered itnecessary for him to push his own fortune, adopted the very arduous andvery modest career of a teacher. He had been usher in a school, and wassaid now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense, when she mentionedLouis, described him as having what she called "des moyens," but asbeing too backward and quiet. Her praise of Robert was in a differentstrain, less qualified: she was very proud of him; she regarded him asthe greatest man in Europe; all he said and did was remarkable in hereyes, and she expected others to behold him from the same point of view;nothing could be more irrational, monstrous, and infamous thanopposition from any quarter to Robert, unless it were opposition toherself.

  Accordingly, as soon as the said Robert was seated at thebreakfast-table, and she had helped him to a portion of stewed pears,and cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to pour out a floodof amazement and horror at the transaction of last night, thedestruction of the frames.

  "Quelle idee! to destroy them. Quelle action honteuse! On voyait bienque les ouvriers de ce pays etaient a la fois betes et mechants. C'etaitabsolument comme les domestiques anglais, les servantes surtout: riend'insupportable comme cette Sara, par exemple!"

  "She looks clean and industrious," Mr. Moore remarked.

  "Looks! I don't know how she looks, and I do not say that she isaltogether dirty or idle, mais elle est d'une insolence! She disputedwith me a quarter of an hour yesterday about the cooking of the beef;she said I boiled it to rags, that English people would never be able toeat such a dish as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no better thangreasy warm water, and as to the choucroute, she affirms she cannottouch it! That barrel we have in the cellar--delightfully prepared by myown hands--she termed a tub of hog-wash, which means food for pigs. I amharassed with the girl, and yet I cannot part with her lest I should geta worse. You are in the same position with your workmen, pauvre cherfrere!"

  "I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense."

  "It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but otherwise thereare certainly a thousand things which make me regret our native town.All the world here appears to me ill-bred (mal-eleve). I find my habitsconsidered ridiculous. If a girl out of your mill chances to come intothe kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole preparing dinner (foryou know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single dish), she sneers. If Iaccept an invitation out to tea, which I have done once or twice, Iperceive I am put quite into the background; I have not that attentionpaid me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family are theGerards, as we know, and the Moores also! They have a right to claim acertain respect, and to feel wounded when it is withheld from them. InAntwerp I was always treated with distinction; here, one would thinkthat when I open my lips in company I speak English with a ridiculousaccent, whereas I am quite assured that I pronounce it perfectly."

  "Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich; in England we were never knownbut poor."

  "Precisely, and thus mercenary are mankind. Again, dear brother, lastSunday, if you recollect, was very wet; accordingly I went to church inmy neat black sabots, objects one would not indeed wear in a fashionablecity, but which in the country I have ever been accustomed to use forwalking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the aisle, composedand tranquil, as I am always, four ladies,
and as many gentlemen,laughed and hid their faces behind their prayer-books."

  "Well, well! don't put on the sabots again. I told you before I thoughtthey were not quite the thing for this country."

  "But, brother, they are not common sabots, such as the peasantry wear. Itell you, they are sabots noirs, tres propres, tres convenables. At Monsand Leuze--cities not very far removed from the elegant capital ofBrussels--it is very seldom that the respectable people wear anythingelse for walking in winter. Let any one try to wade the mud of theFlemish chaussees in a pair of Paris brodequins, on m'en dirait desnouvelles!"

  "Never mind Mons and Leuze and the Flemish chaussees; do at Rome as theRomans do. And as to the camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure aboutthem either. I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. AskCaroline Helstone."

  "Caroline! _I_ ask Caroline? _I_ consult her about my dress? It is _she_who on all points should consult _me_. She is a child."

  "She is eighteen, or at least seventeen--old enough to know all aboutgowns, petticoats, and chaussures."

  "Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother. Do not make her of moreconsequence than she ought to be. At present she is modest andunassuming: let us keep her so."

  "With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?"

  "She will come at ten, as usual, to take her French lesson."

  "You don't find that she sneers at you, do you?"

  "She does not. She appreciates me better than any one else here; butthen she has more intimate opportunities of knowing me. She sees that Ihave education, intelligence, manner, principles--all, in short, whichbelongs to a person well born and well bred."

  "Are you at all fond of her?"

  "For _fond_ I cannot say. I am not one who is prone to take violentfancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the more to be depended on.I have a regard for her as my relative; her position also inspiresinterest, and her conduct as my pupil has hitherto been such as ratherto enhance than diminish the attachment that springs from other causes."

  "She behaves pretty well at lessons?"

  "To _me_ she behaves very well; but you are conscious, brother, that Ihave a manner calculated to repel over-familiarity, to win esteem, andto command respect. Yet, possessed of penetration, I perceive clearlythat Caroline is not perfect, that there is much to be desired in her."

  "Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it amuse me withan account of her faults."

  "Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your breakfast with relish,after the fatiguing night you have passed. Caroline, then, is defective;but with my forming hand and almost motherly care she may improve. Thereis about her an occasional something--a reserve, I think--which I do notquite like, because it is not sufficiently girlish and submissive; andthere are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature, which put meout. Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtfulindeed sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformlysedate and decorous, without being unaccountably pensive. I everdisapprove what is not intelligible."

  "I don't understand your account in the least. What do you mean by'unsettled hurries,' for instance?"

  "An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory explanation. Isometimes, you are aware, make her read French poetry by way ofpractice in pronunciation. She has in the course of her lessons gonethrough much of Corneille and Racine, in a very steady, sober spirit,such as I approve. Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of languorin the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking rather of apathythan sobriety; and apathy is what I cannot tolerate in those who havethe benefit of my instructions--besides, one should not be apathetic instudying standard works. The other day I put into her hands a volume ofshort fugitive pieces. I sent her to the window to learn one by heart,and when I looked up I saw her turning the leaves over impatiently, andcurling her lip, absolutely with scorn, as she surveyed the little poemscursorily. I chid her. 'Ma cousine,' said she, 'tout cela m'ennuie a lamort.' I told her this was improper language. 'Dieu!' she exclaimed, 'iln'y a donc pas deux lignes de poesie dans toute la litteraturefrancaise?' I inquired what she meant. She begged my pardon with propersubmission. Ere long she was still. I saw her smiling to herself overthe book. She began to learn assiduously. In half an hour she came andstood before me, presented the volume, folded her hands, as I alwaysrequire her to do, and commenced the repetition of that short thing byChenier, 'La Jeune Captive.' If you had heard the manner in which shewent through this, and in which she uttered a few incoherent commentswhen she had done, you would have known what I meant by the phrase'unsettled hurry.' One would have thought Chenier was more moving thanall Racine and all Corneille. You, brother, who have so much sagacity,will discern that this disproportionate preference argues anill-regulated mind; but she is fortunate in her preceptress. I will giveher a system, a method of thought, a set of opinions; I will give herthe perfect control and guidance of her feelings."

  "Be sure you do, Hortense. Here she comes. That was her shadow passedthe window, I believe."

  "Ah! truly. She is too early--half an hour before her time.--My child,what brings you here before I have breakfasted?"

  This question was addressed to an individual who now entered the room, ayoung girl, wrapped in a winter mantle, the folds of which were gatheredwith some grace round an apparently slender figure.

  "I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and how Robert was too.I was sure you would be both grieved by what happened last night. I didnot hear till this morning. My uncle told me at breakfast."

  "Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us? Your uncle sympathizeswith us?"

  "My uncle is very angry--but he was with Robert, I believe, was henot?--Did he not go with you to Stilbro' Moor?"

  "Yes, we set out in very martial style, Caroline; but the prisoners wewent to rescue met us half-way."

  "Of course nobody was hurt?"

  "Why, no; only Joe Scott's wrists were a little galled with beingpinioned too tightly behind his back."

  "You were not there? You were not with the wagons when they wereattacked?"

  "No. One seldom has the fortune to be present at occurrences at whichone would particularly wish to assist."

  "Where are you going this morning? I saw Murgatroyd saddling your horsein the yard."

  "To Whinbury. It is market day."

  "Mr. Yorke is going too. I met him in his gig. Come home with him."

  "Why?"

  "Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes Mr. Yorke--at least, poorpeople do not dislike him."

  "Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am hated?"

  "Who are _misunderstood_. That, probably, is the word. Shall you belate?--Will he be late, Cousin Hortense?"

  "It is too probable. He has often much business to transact at Whinbury.Have you brought your exercise-book, child?"

  "Yes.--What time will you return, Robert?"

  "I generally return at seven. Do you wish me to be at home earlier?"

  "Try rather to be back by six. It is not absolutely dark at six now, butby seven daylight is quite gone."

  "And what danger is to be apprehended, Caroline, when daylight _is_gone? What peril do you conceive comes as the companion of darkness forme?"

  "I am not sure that I can define my fears, but we all have a certainanxiety at present about our friends. My uncle calls these timesdangerous. He says, too, that mill-owners are unpopular."

  "And I am one of the most unpopular? Is not that the fact? You arereluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart you think me liable toPearson's fate, who was shot at--not, indeed, from behind a hedge, butin his own house, through his staircase window, as he was going to bed."

  "Anne Pearson showed me the bullet in the chamber-door," remarkedCaroline gravely, as she folded her mantle and arranged it and her muffon a side-table. "You know," she continued, "there is a hedge all theway along the road from here to Whinbury, and there are the Fieldheadplantations to pass; but you will be back by six--or before?"
>
  "Certainly he will," affirmed Hortense. "And now, my child, prepare yourlessons for repetition, while I put the peas to soak for the puree atdinner."

  With this direction she left the room.

  "You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline," said Mr. Moore, "anddoubtless you know me to be destitute of friends?"

  "Not destitute, Robert. There is your sister, your brother Louis, whom Ihave never seen; there is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle--besides, ofcourse, many more."

  Robert smiled. "You would be puzzled to name your 'many more,'" said he."But show me your exercise-book. What extreme pains you take with thewriting! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care. She wants to form youin all things after the model of a Flemish school-girl. What life areyou destined for, Caroline? What will you do with your French, drawing,and other accomplishments, when they are acquired?"

  "You may well say, when they are acquired; for, as you are aware, tillHortense began to teach me, I knew precious little. As to the life I amdestined for, I cannot tell. I suppose to keep my uncle's housetill----" She hesitated.

  "Till what? Till he dies?"

  "No. How harsh to say that! I never think of his dying. He is onlyfifty-five. But till--in short, till events offer other occupations forme."

  "A remarkably vague prospect! Are you content with it?"

  "I used to be, formerly. Children, you know, have little reflection, orrather their reflections run on ideal themes. There are moments _now_when I am not quite satisfied."

  "Why?"

  "I am making no money--earning nothing."

  "You come to the point, Lina. You too, then, wish to make money?"

  "I do. I should like an occupation; and if I were a boy, it would not beso difficult to find one. I see such an easy, pleasant way of learning abusiness, and making my war in life."

  "Go on. Let us hear what way."

  "I could be apprenticed to your trade--the cloth-trade. I could learn itof you, as we are distant relations. I would do the counting-house work,keep the books, and write the letters, while you went to market. I knowyou greatly desire to be rich, in order to pay your father's debts;perhaps I could help you to get rich."

  "Help _me_? You should think of yourself."

  "I do think of myself; but must one for ever think only of oneself?"

  "Of whom else do I think? Of whom else _dare_ I think? The poor ought tohave no large sympathies; it is their duty to be narrow."

  "No, Robert----"

  "Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted, grovelling,anxious. Now and then a poor man's heart, when certain beams and dewsvisit it, may smell like the budding vegetation in yonder garden on thisspring day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage, perhaps blossom; but hemust not encourage the pleasant impulse; he must invoke Prudence tocheck it, with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping as anynorth wind."

  "No cottage would be happy then."

  "When I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean the natural, habitualpoverty of the working-man, as the embarrassed penury of the man indebt. My grub-worm is always a straitened, struggling, care-worntradesman."

  "Cherish hope, not anxiety. Certain ideas have become too fixed in yourmind. It may be presumptuous to say it, but I have the impression thatthere is something wrong in your notions of the best means of attaininghappiness, as there is in----" Second hesitation.

  "I am all ear, Caroline."

  "In (courage! let me speak the truth)--in your manner--mind, I say only_manner_--to these Yorkshire workpeople."

  "You have often wanted to tell me that, have you not?"

  "Yes; often--very often."

  "The faults of my manner are, I think, only negative. I am not proud.What has a man in my position to be proud of? I am only taciturn,phlegmatic, and joyless."

  "As if your living cloth-dressers were all machines like your frames andshears. In your own house you seem different."

  "To those of my own house I am no alien, which I am to these Englishclowns. I might act the benevolent with them, but acting is not my_forte_. I find them irrational, perverse; they hinder me when I long tohurry forward. In treating them justly I fulfil my whole duty towardsthem."

  "You don't expect them to love you, of course?"

  "Nor wish it."

  "Ah!" said the monitress, shaking her head and heaving a deep sigh. Withthis ejaculation, indicative that she perceived a screw to be loosesomewhere, but that it was out of her reach to set it right, she bentover her grammar, and sought the rule and exercise for the day.

  "I suppose I am not an affectionate man, Caroline. The attachment of avery few suffices me."

  "If you please, Robert, will you mend me a pen or two before you go?"

  "First let me rule your book, for you always contrive to draw the linesaslant. There now. And now for the pens. You like a fine one, I think?"

  "Such as you generally make for me and Hortense; not your own broadpoints."

  "If I were of Louis's calling I might stay at home and dedicate thismorning to you and your studies, whereas I must spend it in Skyes'swool-warehouse."

  "You will be making money."

  "More likely losing it."

  As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled and bridled, wasbrought up to the garden-gate.

  "There, Fred is ready for me; I must go. I'll take one look to see whatthe spring has done in the south border, too, first."

  He quitted the room, and went out into the garden ground behind themill. A sweet fringe of young verdure and opening flowers--snowdrop,crocus, even primrose--bloomed in the sunshine under the hot wall of thefactory Moore plucked here and there a blossom and leaf, till he hadcollected a little bouquet. He returned to the parlour, pilfered athread of silk from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and laidthem on Caroline's desk.

  "Now, good-morning."

  "Thank you, Robert. It is pretty; it looks, as it lies there, likesparkles of sunshine and blue sky. Good-morning."

  He went to the door, stopped, opened his lips as if to speak, saidnothing, and moved on. He passed through the wicket, and mounted hishorse. In a second he had flung himself from his saddle again,transferred the reins to Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.

  "I forgot my gloves," he said, appearing to take something from theside-table; then, as an impromptu thought, he remarked, "You have nobinding engagement at home perhaps, Caroline?"

  "I never have. Some children's socks, which Mrs. Ramsden has ordered, toknit for the Jew's basket; but they will keep."

  "Jew's basket be--sold! Never was utensil better named. Anything moreJewish than it--its contents and their prices--cannot be conceived. ButI see something, a very tiny curl, at the corners of your lip, whichtells me that you know its merits as well as I do. Forget the Jew'sbasket, then, and spend the day here as a change. Your uncle won't breakhis heart at your absence?"

  She smiled. "No."

  "The old Cossack! I dare say not," muttered Moore.

  "Then stay and dine with Hortense; she will be glad of your company. Ishall return in good time. We will have a little reading in the evening.The moon rises at half-past eight, and I will walk up to the rectorywith you at nine. Do you agree?"

  She nodded her head, and her eyes lit up.

  Moore lingered yet two minutes. He bent over Caroline's desk and glancedat her grammar, he fingered her pen, he lifted her bouquet and playedwith it; his horse stamped impatient; Fred Murgatroyd hemmed and coughedat the gate, as if he wondered what in the world his master was doing."Good-morning," again said Moore, and finally vanished.

  Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her surprise, thatCaroline had not yet commenced her exercise.