Shirley. Шарлотта Бронте

France! If England had gone as far on the march of civilization as France did, she would hardly have retreated so shamelessly.”

      “You don’t mean to say that besotted imperial France is any worse than bloody republican France?” demanded Helstone fiercely.

      “I mean to say nothing, but I can think what I please, you know, Mr. Helstone, both about France and England; and about revolutions, and regicides, and restorations in general; and about the divine right of kings, which you often stickle for in your sermons, and the duty of non-resistance, and the sanity of war, and—”

      Mr. Moore’s sentence was here cut short by the rapid rolling up of a gig, and its sudden stoppage in the middle of the road. Both he and the rector had been too much occupied with their discourse to notice its approach till it was close upon them.

      “Nah, maister; did th’ wagons hit home?” demanded a voice from the vehicle.

      “Can that be Joe Scott?”

      “Ay, ay!” returned another voice; for the gig contained two persons, as was seen by the glimmer of its lamp. The men with the lanterns had now fallen into the rear, or rather, the equestrians of the rescue-party had outridden the pedestrians. “Ay, Mr. Moore, it’s Joe Scott. I’m bringing him back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top of the moor yonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him to you?”

      “Why, my thanks, I believe; for I could better have afforded to lose a better man. That is you, I suppose, Mr. Yorke, by your voice?”

      “Ay, lad, it’s me. I was coming home from Stilbro’ market, and just as I got to the middle of the moor, and was whipping on as swift as the wind (for these, they say, are not safe times, thanks to a bad government!), I heard a groan. I pulled up. Some would have whipt on faster; but I’ve naught to fear that I know of. I don’t believe there’s a lad in these parts would harm me—at least, I’d give them as good as I got if they offered to do it. I said, ‘Is there aught wrong anywhere?’ ‘’Deed is there,’ somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. ‘What’s to do? Be sharp and tell me,’ I ordered. ‘Nobbut four on us ligging in a ditch,’ says Joe, as quiet as could be. I telled ’em more shame to ’em, and bid them get up and move on, or I’d lend them a lick of the gig-whip; for my notion was they were all fresh. ‘We’d ha’ done that an hour sin’, but we’re teed wi’ a bit o’ band,’ says Joe. So in a while I got down and loosed ’em wi’ my penknife; and Scott would ride wi’ me, to tell me all how it happened; and t’ others are coming on as fast as their feet will bring them.”

      “Well, I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Yorke.”

      “Are you, my lad? You know you’re not. However, here are the rest approaching. And here, by the Lord, is another set with lights in their pitchers, like the army of Gideon; and as we’ve th’ parson wi’, us—good-evening, Mr. Helstone—we’se do.”

      Mr. Helstone returned the salutation of the individual in the gig very stiffly indeed. That individual proceeded,—

      “We’re eleven strong men, and there’s both horses and chariots amang us. If we could only fall in wi’ some of these starved ragamuffins of frame-breakers we could win a grand victory. We could iv’ry one be a Wellington—that would please ye, Mr. Helstone—and sich paragraphs as we could contrive for t’ papers! Briarfield suld be famous. But we’se hev a column and a half i’ th’ Stilbro’ Courier ower this job, as it is, I dare say. I’se expect no less.”

      “And I’ll promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for I’ll write the article myself,” returned the rector.

      “To be sure—sartainly! And mind ye recommend weel that them ’at brake t’ bits o’ frames, and teed Joe Scott’s legs wi’ band, suld be hung without benefit o’ clergy. It’s a hanging matter, or suld be. No doubt o’ that.”

      “If I judged them I’d give them short shrift!” cried Moore. “But I mean to let them quite alone this bout, to give them rope enough, certain that in the end they will hang themselves.”

      “Let them alone, will ye, Moore? Do you promise that?”

      “Promise! No. All I mean to say is, I shall give myself no particular trouble to catch them; but if one falls in my way—”

      “You’ll snap him up, of course. Only you would rather they would do something worse than merely stop a wagon before you reckon with them. Well, we’ll say no more on the subject at present. Here we are at my door, gentlemen, and I hope you and the men will step in. You will none of you be the worse of a little refreshment.”

      Moore and Helstone opposed this proposition as unnecessary. It was, however, pressed on them so courteously, and the night, besides, was so inclement, and the gleam from the muslin-curtained windows of the house before which they had halted looked so inviting, that at length they yielded. Mr. Yorke, after having alighted from his gig, which he left in charge of a man who issued from an outbuilding on his arrival, led the way in.

      It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a little in his phraseology. Now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and anon he expressed himself in very pure English. His manner seemed liable to equal alternations. He could be polite and affable, and he could be blunt and rough. His station then you could not easily determine by his speech and demeanour. Perhaps the appearance of his residence may decide it.

      The men he recommended to take the kitchen way, saying that he would “see them served wi’ summat to taste presently.” The gentlemen were ushered in at the front entrance. They found themselves in a matted hall, lined almost to the ceiling with pictures. Through this they were conducted to a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate—the most cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole, and when you came to examine details, the enlivening effect was not diminished. There was no splendour, but there was taste everywhere, unusual taste—the taste, you would have said, of a travelled man, a scholar, and a gentleman. A series of Italian views decked the walls. Each of these was a specimen of true art. A connoisseur had selected them; they were genuine and valuable. Even by candle-light the bright clear skies, the soft distances, with blue air quivering between the eye and the hills, the fresh tints, and well-massed lights and shadows, charmed the view. The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes were all sunny. There was a guitar and some music on a sofa; there were cameos, beautiful miniatures; a set of Grecian-looking vases on the mantelpiece; there were books well arranged in two elegant bookcases.

      Mr. Yorke bade his guests be seated. He then rang for wine. To the servant who brought it he gave hospitable orders for the refreshment of the men in the kitchen. The rector remained standing; he seemed not to like his quarters; he would not touch the wine his host offered him.

      “E’en as you will,” remarked Mr. Yorke. “I reckon you’re thinking of Eastern customs, Mr. Helstone, and you’ll not eat nor drink under my roof, feared we suld be forced to be friends; but I am not so particular or superstitious. You might sup the contents of that decanter, and you might give me a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I’d hold myself free to oppose you at every turn still—in every vestry-meeting and justice-meeting where we encountered one another.”

      “It is just what I should expect of you, Mr. Yorke.”

      “Does it agree wi’ ye now, Mr. Helstone, to be riding out after rioters, of a wet night, at your age?”

      “It always agrees with me to be doing my duty; and in this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. To hunt down vermin is a noble occupation, fit for an archbishop.”

      “Fit for ye, at ony rate. But where’s t’ curate? He’s happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he’s happen hunting down vermin in another direction.”

      “He is doing garrison-duty at Hollow’s Mill.”

      “You left him a sup o’ wine, I hope, Bob” (turning to Mr. Moore), “to keep his courage up?”

      He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly, still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned