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.
“Is it you, William? How are you?” he asked.
“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, —
“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.”
“Has Mr. Moore turned you off?”
“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.”
“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 — — “
“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.”
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.
“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.”
Again he reflected.
“You’ve no money, William, and you’ve nothing you could sell to raise a small sum?”
“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.”
“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?”
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.”
“Could you, William?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
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.
CHAPTER IX.
BRIARMAINS.
Messrs. Helstone and Sykes began to be extremely jocose and congratulatory with Mr. Moore when he returned to them after dismissing the deputation. He was so quiet, however, under their compliments upon his firmness, etc., and wore a countenance so like a still, dark day, equally beamless and breezeless, that the rector, after glancing shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his coat, and said to Sykes, whose senses were not acute enough to enable him to discover unassisted where his presence and conversation were a nuisance, “Come, sir; your road and mine lie partly together. Had we not better bear each other company? We’ll bid Moore good-morning, and leave him to the happy fancies he seems disposed to indulge.”
“And where is Sugden?” demanded Moore, looking up.
“Ah, ha!” cried Helstone. “I’ve not been quite idle while you were busy. I’ve been helping you a little; I flatter myself not injudiciously. I thought it better not to lose time; so, while you were parleying with that down-looking gentleman — Farren I think his name is — I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr. Sykes’s gig round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses — wooden leg and all — through the aperture, and saw them mount the gig (always with our good friend Sykes’s permission, of course). Sugden took the reins — he drives like Jehu — and in another quarter of an hour Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro’ jail.”
“Very good; thank you,” said Moore; “and good-morning, gentlemen,” he added, and so politely conducted them to the door, and saw them clear of his premises.
He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day. He did not even bandy a repartee with Joe Scott, who, for his part, said to his master only just what was absolutely necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequently came to poke the counting-house fire for him, and once, as he was locking up for the day (the mill was then working short time, owing to the slackness of trade), observed that it was a grand evening, and he “could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up th’ Hollow. It would do him good.”
At this recommendation Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude meant, and whether he took him for a woman or a child, seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him by the shoulders out of his presence. He called him back, however, ere he had reached the yard-gate.
“Joe, do you know those Farrens? They are not well off, I suppose?”
“They cannot be well off, sir, when they’ve not had work as a three month. Ye’d see yoursel’ ‘at William’s sorely changed — fair paired. They’ve selled most o’ t’ stuff out o’ th’ house.”
“He was not a bad workman?”
“Ye never had a better, sir, sin’ ye began trade.”
“And decent people — the whole family?”
“Niver dacenter. Th’ wife’s a raight cant body, and as clean — ye mught eat your porridge off th’ house floor. They’re sorely comed down. I wish William could get a job as gardener or summat i’ that way; he understands gardening weel. He once lived wi’ a Scotchman that tached him the
mysteries o’ that craft, as they say.”
“Now, then, you can go, Joe. You need not stand there staring at me.”
“Ye’ve no orders to give, sir?”
“None, but for you to take yourself off.”
Which Joe did accordingly.
Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this had been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meridian sunshine, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and ere dusk a hoar frost was insidiously stealing over growing grass and unfolding bud. It whitened the pavement in front of Briarmains (Mr. Yorke’s residence), and made silent havoc among the tender plants in his garden, and on the mossy level of his lawn. As to that great tree, strong-trunked and broad-armed, which guarded the gable nearest the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm its still bare boughs; and so did the leafless grove of walnut-trees rising tall behind the house.
In the dusk of the moonless if starry night, lights from windows shone vividly. This was no dark or lonely scene, nor even a silent one. Briarmains stood near the highway. It was rather an old place, and had been built ere that highway was cut, and when a lane winding up through fields was the only path conducting to it. Briarfield lay scarce a mile off; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen. Briar Chapel, a large, new, raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant; and as there was even now a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, the illumination of its windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn of a most extraordinary description, such as a very Quaker might feel himself moved by the Spirit to dance to, roused cheerily all the echoes of the vicinage. The words were distinctly audible by snatches. Here is a quotation or two from different strains; for the singers passed jauntily from hymn to hymn and from tune to tune, with an ease and buoyancy all their own: —
“Oh! who can explain
This struggle for life,
This travail and pain,
This trembling and strife?
Plague, earthquake, and famine,
And tumult and war,
The wonderful coming
Of Jesus declare!
“For every fight
Is dreadful and loud:
The warrior’s delight
Is slaughter and blood,
His foes overturning,
Till all shall expire:
And this is with burning,
And fuel, and fire!”
Here followed an interval of clamorous prayer, accompanied by fearful groans. A shout of “I’ve found liberty!” “Doad o’ Bill’s has fun’ liberty!” rang from the chapel, and out all the assembly broke again.
“What a mercy is this!
What a heaven of bliss!
How unspeakably happy am I!
Gathered into the fold,
With Thy people enrolled,
With Thy people to live and to die!
“Oh, the goodness of God
In employing a clod
His tribute of glory to raise;
His standard to bear,
And with triumph declare
His unspeakable riches of grace!
“Oh, the fathomless love
That has deigned to approve
And prosper the work of my hands.
With my pastoral crook
I went over the brook,
And behold I am spread into bands!
“Who, I ask in amaze,
Hath begotten me these?
And inquire from what quarter they came.
My full heart it replies,
They are born from the skies,
And gives glory to God and the Lamb!”
The stanza which followed this, after another and longer interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic cries, agonized groans, seemed to cap the climax of noise and zeal.
“Sleeping on the brink of sin,
Tophet gaped to take us in;
Mercy to our rescue flew,
Broke the snare, and brought us through.
“Here, as in a lion’s den,
Undevoured we still remain,
Pass secure the watery flood,
Hanging on the arm of God.
“Here — — “
(Terrible, most distracting to the ear, was the strained shout in which the last stanza was given.)
“Here we raise our voices higher,
Shout in the refiner’s fire,
Clap our hands amidst the flame,
Glory give to Jesus’ name!”
The roof of the chapel did not fly off, which speaks volumes in praise of its solid slating.
But if Briar Chapel seemed alive, so also did Briarmains, though certainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quieter phase of existence than the temple. Some of its windows too were aglow; the lower casements opened upon the lawn; curtains concealed the interior, and partly obscured the ray of the candles which lit it, but they did not entirely muffle the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged to enter that front door, and to penetrate to the domestic sanctum.
It is not the presence of company which makes Mr. Yorke’s habitation lively, for there is none within it save his own family, and they are assembled in that farthest room to the right, the back parlour.
This is the usual sitting-room of an evening. Those windows would be seen by daylight to be of brilliantly-stained glass, purple and amber the predominant hues, glittering round a gravely-tinted medallion in the centre of each, representing the suave head of William Shakespeare, and the serene one of John Milton. Some Canadian views hung on the walls — green forest and blue water scenery — and in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption of Vesuvius; very ardently it glows, contrasted with the cool foam and azure of cataracts, and the dusky depths of woods.
The fire illuminating this room, reader, is such as, if you be a southern, you do not often see burning on the hearth of a private apartment. It is a clear, hot coal fire, heaped high in the ample chimney. Mr. Yorke will have such fires even in warm summer weather. He sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow supporting a candle; but he is not reading — he is watching his children. Opposite to him sits his lady — a personage whom I might describe minutely, but I feel no vocation to the task. I see her, though, very plainly before me — a large woman of the gravest aspect, care on her front and on her shoulders, but not overwhelming, inevitable care, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden people ever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, well-a-day! Mrs. Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she was, morning, noon, and, night; and hard things she thought if any unhappy wight — especially of the female sex — who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay heart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was to be profane, to be cheerful was to be frivolous. She drew no distinctions. Yet she was a very good wife, a very careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, was sincerely attached to her husband; only the worst of it was, if she could have had her will, she would not have permitted him to have any friend in the world beside herself. All his relations were insupportable to her, and she kept them at arm’s length.
Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well, yet he was naturally a social, hospitable man, an advocate for family unity; and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none but lively, cheerful women. Why he chose her, how they contrived to suit each other, is a problem puzzling enough, but which might soon be solved if one had time to go into the analysis of the case. Suffice it here to say that Yorke had a shadowy side as well as a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy side found sympathy and affinity in the whole of his wife’s uniformly overcast nature. For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weak or a trite thing; took stern, democratic views of society, and rather cynical ones of human nature; considered herself perfect and safe, and the rest of the world all wrong. Her main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitigable suspicion of all men, things, creeds, and parties; this suspicion was a mist before her eyes,
a false guide in her path, wherever she looked, wherever she turned.
It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were not likely to turn out quite ordinary, commonplace beings; and they were not. You see six of them, reader. The youngest is a baby on the mother’s knee. It is all her own yet, and that one she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect, condemn; it derives its sustenance from her, it hangs on her, it clings to her, it loves her above everything else in the world. She is sure of that, because, as it lives by her, it cannot be otherwise, therefore she loves it.
The two next are girls, Rose and Jessy; they are both now at their father’s knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father — the most like him of the whole group — but it is a granite head copied in ivory; all is softened in colour and line. Yorke himself has a harsh face — his daughter’s is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple, childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom: as to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than childlike; a serious soul lights them — a young soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either — stronger, much purer, more aspiring. Rose is a still, sometimes a stubborn, girl now. Her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself — a woman of dark and dreary duties; and Rose has a mind full-set, thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed. She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all. Rose loves her father: her father does not rule her with a rod of iron; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gleam in her language. This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 71
