Shirley

“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.”