Шарлотта Бронте
Shirley
The triumph began. Malone, much chagrined at hearing him pipe up in most superior style, determined to earn distinction too, if possible, and all at once assuming the character of a swain (which character he had endeavoured to enact once or twice before, but in which he had not hitherto met with the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved), approached a sofa on which Miss Helstone was seated, and depositing his great Irish frame near her, tried his hand (or rather tongue) at a fine speech or two, accompanied by grins the most extraordinary and incomprehensible. In the course of his efforts to render himself agreeable, he contrived to possess himself of the two long sofa cushions and a square one; with which, after rolling them about for some time with strange gestures, he managed to erect a sort of barrier between himself and the object of his attentions. Caroline, quite willing that they should be sundered, soon devised an excuse for stepping over to the opposite side of the room, and taking up a position beside Mrs. Sykes, of which good lady she entreated some instruction in a new stitch in ornamental knitting, a favour readily granted; and thus Peter Augustus was thrown out.
Very sullenly did his countenance lower when he saw himself abandoned – left entirely to his own resources, on a large sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his hands. The fact was, he felt disposed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss Helstone, because he thought, in common with others, that her uncle possessed money, and concluded that, since he had no children, he would probably leave it to his niece. Gérard Moore was better instructed on this point: he had seen the neat church that owed its origin to the rector’s zeal and cash, and more than once, in his inmost soul, had cursed an expensive caprice which crossed his wishes.
The evening seemed long to one person in that room. Caroline at intervals dropped her knitting on her lap, and gave herself up to a sort of brain-lethargy – closing her eyes and depressing her head – caused by what seemed to her the unmeaning hum around her, – the inharmonious, tasteless rattle of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes of the flute, the laughter and mirth of her uncle, and Hannah, and Mary, she could not tell whence originating, for she heard nothing comic or gleeful in their discourse; and more than all, by the interminable gossip of Mrs. Sykes murmured close at her ear, gossip which rang the changes on four subjects – her own health and that of the various members of her family; the missionary and Jew baskets and their contents; the late meeting at Nunnely, and one which was expected to come off next week at Whinbury.
Tired at length to exhaustion, she embraced the opportunity of Mr. Sweeting coming up to speak to Mrs. Sykes to slip quietly out of the apartment, and seek a moment’s respite in solitude. She repaired to the dining room, where the clear but now low remnant of a fire still burned in the grate. The place was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in their places, all was orderly. Caroline sank into her uncle’s large easy chair, half shut her eyes, and rested herself – rested at least her limbs, her senses, her hearing, her vision – weary with listening to nothing, and gazing on vacancy. As to her mind, that flew directly to the Hollow. It stood on the threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the counting house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the presence of Robert. It so happened that neither locality had that honour; for Robert was half a mile away from both, and much nearer to Caroline than her deadened spirit suspected. He was at this moment crossing the churchyard, approaching the rectory garden-gate – not, however, coming to see his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief piece of intelligence to the rector.
Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate; it rings again for the fifth time this afternoon. You start, and you are certain now that this must be he of whom you dream. Why you are so certain you cannot explain to yourself, but you know it. You lean forward, listening eagerly as Fanny opens the door. Right! That is the voice – low, with the slight foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy. You half rise. “Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company, and then he will go away.” Oh! she cannot let him go. In spite of herself, in spite of her reason, she walks half across the room; she stands ready to dart out in case the step should retreat; but he enters the passage. “Since your master is engaged,” he says, “just show me into the dining room. Bring me pen and ink. I will write a short note and leave it for him.”
Now, having caught these words, and hearing him advance, Caroline, if there was a door within the dining room, would glide through it and disappear. She feels caught, hemmed in; she dreads her unexpected presence may annoy him. A second since she would have flown to him; that second past, she would flee from him. She cannot. There is no way of escape. The dining room has but one door, through which now enters her cousin. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his face has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered a sort of apology —
“I only left the drawing room a minute for a little quiet.”
There was something so diffident and downcast in the air and tone with which she said this, anyone might perceive that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession had left her. Mr. Moore, probably, remembered how she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle ardour and hopeful confidence. He must have seen how the check of this morning had operated. Here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with effect, if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to practise that system in broad daylight, in his mill yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a quiet parlour, disengaged, at the hour of eventide. Fanny lit the candles, which before had stood unlit on the table, brought writing materials, and left the room. Caroline was about to follow her. Moore, to act consistently, should have let her go; whereas he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his hand, gently kept her back. He did not ask her to stay, but he would not let her go.
“Shall I tell my uncle you are here?” asked she, still in the same subdued voice.
“No; I can say to you all I had to say to him. You will be my messenger?”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Then you may just inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames; that he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and Pearson’s dressing shop, and that I hope to have him in custody tomorrow. You can remember that?”
“Oh yes!” These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and as she said them she shook her head slightly and sighed. “Will you prosecute him?”
“Doubtless.”
“No, Robert.”
“And why no, Caroline?”
“Because it will set all the neighbourhood against you more than ever.”
“That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief.”
“But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. It is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and hit their mark ‘at last.’”
Moore laughed.
“A most pithy vaunt,” said he—“one that redounds vastly to the credit of your dear Yorkshire friends. But don’t fear for me, Lina. I am on my guard against these lamb-like compatriots of yours. Don’t make yourself uneasy about me.”
“How can I help it? You are my cousin. If anything happened” She stopped.
“Nothing will happen, Lina. To speak in your own language, there is a Providence above all – is there not?”
“Yes, dear Robert. May He guard you!”
“And if prayers have efficacy, yours will benefit me. You pray for me sometimes?”
“Not sometimes, Robert. You, and Louis, and Hortense are always remembered.”
“So I have often imagined. It has occurred to me when, weary and vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a heathen, that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night. I don’t suppose such vicarial piety will avail much, but the petitions come out of a sincere breast, from innocent lips. They should be acceptable as Abel’s offering; and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them.”
“Annihilate that doubt. It is groundless.”
“When a man has been brought up only to make money, and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea with anything divine; and very strange it seems that a good, pure heart should take him in and harbour him, as if he had any claim to that sort of nest. If I could guide that benignant heart, I believe I should counsel it to exclude one who does not profess to have any higher aim in life than that of patching up his broken fortune, and wiping clean from his bourgeois scutcheon the foul stain of bankruptcy.”
The hint, though conveyed thus tenderly and modestly (as Caroline thought), was felt keenly and comprehended clearly.
“Indeed, I only think – or I will only think – of you as my cousin,” was the quick answer. “I am beginning to understand things better than I did, Robert, when you first came to England – better than I did a week, a day ago. I know it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won’t do for you to be romantic; but in future you must not misunderstand me if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not?”
“What made you think so?”
“Your look – your manner.”
“But look at me now”
“Oh! you are different now. At present I dare speak to you.”
“Yet I am the same, except that I have left the tradesman behind me in the Hollow. Your kinsman alone stands before you.”
“My cousin Robert – not Mr. Moore.”
“Not a bit of Mr. Moore. Caroline”
Here the company was heard rising in the other room. The door was opened; the pony-carriage was ordered; shawls and bonnets were demanded; Mr. Helstone called for his niece.
“I must go, Robert.”
“Yes, you must go, or they will come in and find us here; and I, rather than meet all that host in the passage, will take my departure through the window. Luckily it opens like a door. One minute only – put down the candle an instant – good night. I kiss you because we are cousins, and, being cousins, one – two – three kisses are allowable. Caroline, good night.”
Chapter VIII
Noah and Moses
The next day Moore had risen before the sun, and had taken a ride to Whinbury and back ere his sister had made the café au lait or cut the tartines for his breakfast. What business he transacted there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions: it was not her wont to comment on his movements, nor his to render an account of them. The secrets of business – complicated and often dismal mysteries – were buried in his breast, and never came out of their sepulchre save now and then to scare Joe Scott, or give a start to some foreign correspondent. Indeed, a general habit of reserve on whatever was important seemed bred in his mercantile blood.
Breakfast over, he went to his counting house. Henry, Joe Scott’s boy, brought in the letters and the daily papers; Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the documents, and glanced them over. They were all short, but not, it seemed, sweet – probably rather sour, on the contrary, for as Moore laid down the last, his nostrils emitted a derisive and defiant snuff, and though he burst into no soliloquy, there was a glance in his eye which seemed to invoke the devil, and lay charges on him to sweep the whole concern to Gehenna. However, having chosen a pen and stripped away the feathered top in a brief spasm of finger-fury (only finger-fury – his face was placid), he dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went out and walked through the mill. On coming back he sat down to read his newspaper.
The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting; he more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire; he occasionally turned his head towards the window; he looked at intervals at his watch; in short, his mind appeared preoccupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather – for it was a fine and mild morning for the season – and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting house stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine entered freely; but the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only an occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable from the gaunt mill chimney.
A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered the words “He’s comed, sir,” and vanished.
Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and gray worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, and desired to take a seat, which he did, making the remark, as he removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown, that it was “raight dahn warm for Febewerry.” Mr. Moore assented – at least he uttered some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully deposited in the corner beside him an official-looking staff which he bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way of appearing at his ease.
“You have what is necessary, I suppose?” said Mr. Moore.
“Ay, ay! all’s right.”
He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading. The paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently, however, he turned to his cupboard, which was within reach of his long arm, opened it without rising, took out a black bottle – the same he had produced for Malone’s benefit – a tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said to his guest;
“Help yourself; there’s water in that jar in the corner.”
“I dunnut knaw that there’s mich need, for all a body is dry (thirsty) in a morning,” said the fustian gentleman, rising and doing as requested.
“Will you tak naught yourseln, Mr. Moore?” he inquired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and having tested it by a deep draught, sank back satisfied and bland in his seat. Moore, chary of words, replied by a negative movement and murmur.
“Yah’d as good,” continued his visitor; “it ’uld set ye up wald a sup o’ this stuff. Uncommon good hollands. Ye get it fro’ furrin parts, I’se think?”
“Ay!”
“Tak my advice and try a glass on’t. Them lads ’at’s coming ’ll keep ye talking, nob’dy knows how long. Ye’ll need propping.”
“Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning?” inquired Moore.
“I seed him a hauf an hour – nay, happen a quarter of an hour sin,’ just afore I set off. He said he aimed to come here, and I sudn’t wonder but ye’ll have old Helstone too. I seed ’em saddling his little nag as I passed at back o’ t’ rectory.”
The speaker was a true prophet, for the trot of a little nag’s hoofs was, five minutes after, heard in the yard. It stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud, “Boy” (probably addressing Harry Scott, who usually hung about the premises from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.), “take my horse and lead him into the stable.”
Helstone came in marching nimbly and erect, looking browner, keener, and livelier than usual.
“Beautiful morning, Moore. How do, my boy? Ha! whom have we here?” (turning to the personage with the staff). “Sugden! What! you’re going to work directly? On my word, you lose no time. But I come to ask explanations. Your message was delivered to me. Are you sure you are on the right scent? How do you mean to set about the business? Have you got a warrant?”
“Sugden has.”
“Then you are going to seek him now? I’ll accompany you.”
“You will be spared that trouble, sir; he is coming to seek me. I’m just now sitting in state waiting his arrival.”
“And who is it? One of my parishioners?”
Joe Scott had entered unobserved. He now stood, a most sinister phantom, half his person being dyed of the deepest tint of indigo, leaning on the desk. His master’s answer to the rector’s question was a smile. Joe took the word. Putting on a quiet but pawky look, he said;
“It’s a friend of yours, Mr. Helstone, a gentleman you often speak of.”
“Indeed! His name, Joe? You look well this morning.”
“Only the Rev. Moses Barraclough; t’ tub orator you call him sometimes, I think.”
“Ah!” said the rector, taking out his snuffbox, and administering to himself a very long pinch—“ah! couldn’t have supposed it. Why, the 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.
“You seem a fine fellow,” said Moore, quite coolly and dryly; “you don’t care for showing me that you are a double-dyed hypocrite, that your trade is fraud. You expect indeed to make me laugh at the cleverness with which you play your coarsely farcical part, while at the same time you think you are deceiving the men behind you.”
Moses’ countenance lowered. He saw he had gone too far. He was going to answer, when the second leader, impatient of being hitherto kept in the background, stepped forward. This man did not look like a traitor, though he had an exceedingly self-confident and conceited air.
“Mr. Moore,” commenced he, speaking also in his throat and nose, and enunciating each word very slowly, as if with a view to giving his audience time to appreciate fully the uncommon elegance of the phraseology, “it might, perhaps, justly be said that reason rather than peace is our purpose. We come, in the first place, to request you to hear reason; and should you refuse, it is my duty to warn you, in very decided terms, that measures will be had resort to” (he meant recourse) “which will probably terminate in – in bringing you to a sense of the unwisdom, of the – the foolishness which seems to guide and guard your proceedings as a tradesman in this manufacturing part of the country. Hem! Sir, I would beg to allude that as a furriner, coming from a distant coast, another quarter and hemisphere of this globe, thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these shores – the cliffs of Albion – you have not that understanding of huz and wer ways which might conduce to the benefit of the working classes. If, to come at once to partic’lars, you’d consider to give up this here miln, and go without further protractions straight home to where you belong, it ’ud happen be as well. I can see naught ageean such a plan. – What hev ye to say tull’t, lads?” turning round to the other members of the deputation, who responded unanimously, “Hear, hear!”
