MR. YORKE.
Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much
on the state of things within as on the state of things without and
around us. I make this trite remark, because I happen to know that
Messrs. Helstone and Moore trotted forth from the mill-yard gates, at
the head of their very small company, in the best possible spirits. When
a ray from a lantern (the three pedestrians of the party carried each
one) fell on Mr. Moore's face, you could see an unusual, because a
lively, spark dancing in his eyes, and a new-found vivacity mantling on
his dark physiognomy; and when the rector's visage was illuminated, his
hard features were revealed all agrin and ashine with glee. Yet a
drizzling night, a somewhat perilous expedition, you would think were
not circumstances calculated to enliven those exposed to the wet and
engaged in the adventure. If any member or members of the crew who had
been at work on Stilbro' Moor had caught a view of this party, they
would have had great pleasure in shooting either of the leaders from
behind a wall: and the leaders knew this; and the fact is, being both
men of steely nerves and steady-beating hearts, were elate with the
knowledge.
I am aware, reader, and you need not remind me, that it is a dreadful
thing for a parson to be warlike; I am aware that he should be a man of
peace. I have some faint outline of an idea of what a clergyman's
mission is amongst mankind, and I remember distinctly whose servant he
is, whose message he delivers, whose example he should follow; yet, with
all this, if you are a parson-hater, you need not expect me to go along
with you every step of your dismal, downward-tending, unchristian road;
you need not expect me to join in your deep anathemas, at once so narrow
and so sweeping, in your poisonous rancour, so intense and so absurd,
against "the cloth;" to lift up my eyes and hands with a Supplehough,
or to inflate my lungs with a Barraclough, in horror and denunciation of
the diabolical rector of Briarfield.
He was not diabolical at all. The evil simply was--he had missed his
vocation. He should have been a soldier, and circumstances had made him
a priest. For the rest, he was a conscientious, hard-headed,
hard-handed, brave, stern, implacable, faithful little man; a man almost
without sympathy, ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid, but a man true to
principle, honourable, sagacious, and sincere. It seems to me, reader,
that you cannot always cut out men to fit their profession, and that you
ought not to curse them because their profession sometimes hangs on them
ungracefully. Nor will I curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was. Yet
he _was_ cursed, and by many of his own parishioners, as by others he
was adored--which is the frequent fate of men who show partiality in
friendship and bitterness in enmity, who are equally attached to
principles and adherent to prejudices.
Helstone and Moore being both in excellent spirits, and united for the
present in one cause, you would expect that, as they rode side by side,
they would converse amicably. Oh no! These two men, of hard, bilious
natures both, rarely came into contact but they chafed each other's
moods. Their frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone was a
high Tory (there were Tories in those days), and Moore was a bitter
Whig--a Whig, at least, as far as opposition to the war-party was
concerned, that being the question which affected his own interest; and
only on that question did he profess any British politics at all. He
liked to infuriate Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibility
of Bonaparte, by taunting England and Europe with the impotence of their
efforts to withstand him, and by coolly advancing the opinion that it
was as well to yield to him soon as late, since he must in the end crush
every antagonist, and reign supreme.
Helstone could not bear these sentiments. It was only on the
consideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and alien, and having but
half measure of British blood to temper the foreign gall which corroded
his veins, that he brought himself to listen to them without indulging
the wish he felt to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhat
allayed his disgust--namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone with
which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistency
of Moore's crabbed contumacy.
As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, they met what little wind
there was; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore had been fretting his
companion previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, and perhaps
irritated by the sharp drizzle, he began to goad him.
"Does your Peninsular news please you still?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" was the surly demand of the rector.
"I mean, have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord Wellington?"
"And what do you mean now?"
"Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebble-hearted idol of
England has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French
holocaust you want to offer up?"
"I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea the
day it pleases him to lift his arm."
"But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what you say. Bonaparte's
marshals are great men, who act under the guidance of an omnipotent
master-spirit. Your Wellington is the most humdrum of commonplace
martinets, whose slow, mechanical movements are further cramped by an
ignorant home government."
"Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the right champion of
a good cause, the fit representative of a powerful, a resolute, a
sensible, and an honest nation."
"Your good cause, as far as I understand it, is simply the restoration
of that filthy, feeble Ferdinand to a throne which he disgraced. Your
fit representative of an honest people is a dull-witted drover, acting
for a duller-witted farmer; and against these are arrayed victorious
supremacy and invincible genius."
"Against legitimacy is arrayed usurpation; against modest,
single-minded, righteous, and brave resistance to encroachment is
arrayed boastful, double-tongued, selfish, and treacherous ambition to
possess. God defend the right!"
"God often defends the powerful."
"What! I suppose the handful of Israelites standing dryshod on the
Asiatic side of the Red Sea was more powerful than the host of the
Egyptians drawn up on the African side? Were they more numerous? Were
they better appointed? Were they more mighty, in a word--eh? Don't
speak, or you'll tell a lie, Moore; you know you will. They were a poor,
overwrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants had oppressed them through four
hundred years; a feeble mixture of women and children diluted their thin
ranks; their masters, who roared to follow them through the divided
flood, were a set of pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as the
lions of Libya. They were armed, horsed, and charioted; the poor Hebrew
wanderers were afoot. Few of them, it is likely, had better weapons than
their shepherds' crooks or their masons' building-tools; their meek and
mighty leader himself had only his rod. But bethink you, Robert Moore,
right was with them; the God of battles was on their side. Crime and the
lost archangel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, and which triumphed? We
know that well. 'The Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the
Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore'--yea,
'the depths covered them, they sank to the bottom as a stone.' The right
hand of the Lord became glorious in power; the right hand of the Lord
dashed in pieces the enemy!"
"You are all right; only you forget the true parallel. France is Israel,
and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with her old overgorged empires and
rotten dynasties, is corrupt Egypt; gallant France is the Twelve Tribes,
and her fresh and vigorous Usurper the Shepherd of Horeb."
"I scorn to answer you."
Moore accordingly answered himself--at least, he subjoined to what he
had just said an additional observation in a lower voice.
"Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses! He was the right thing
there, fit to head and organize measures for the regeneration of
nations. It puzzles me to this day how the conqueror of Lodi should have
condescended to become an emperor, a vulgar, a stupid humbug; and still
more how a people who had once called themselves republicans should have
sunk again to the grade of mere slaves. I despise 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 chair by the
fireside--"Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take the
sofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not this. It belangs to
me, and nob'dy else."
"Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke?" asked Moore,
lazily vacating the place in obedience to orders.
"My father war afore me, and that's all t' answer I sall gie thee; and
it's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for the main feck o' his
notions."
"Moore, are you ready to go?" inquired the rector.
"Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's
an ill lad, and wants correcting."
"Why, sir? What have I done?"
"Made thyself enemies on every hand."
"What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether
your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"
"Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien amang us. His father
would never have talked i' that way.--Go back to Antwerp, where you were
born and bred, mauvaise tête!"
"Mauvaise tête vous-même; je ne fais que mon devoir; quant à vos
lourdauds de paysans, je m'en moque!"
"En ravanche, mon garçon, nos lourdauds de paysans se moqueront de toi;
sois en certain," replied Yorke, speaking with nearly as pure a French
accent as Gérard Moore.
"C'est bon! c'est bon! Et puisque cela m'est égal, que mes amis ne s'en
inquiètent pas."
"Tes amis! Où sont-ils, tes amis?"
"Je fais écho, où sont-ils? et je suis fort aise que l'écho seul y
répond. Au diable les amis! Je me souviens encore du moment où mon père
et mes oncles Gérard appellèrent autour d'eux leurs amis, et Dieu sait
si les amis se sont empressés d'accourir à leur secours! Tenez, M.
Yorke, ce mot, ami, m'irrite trop; ne m'en parlez plus."
"Comme tu voudras."
And here Mr. Yorke held his peace; and while he sits leaning back in his
three-cornered carved oak chair, I will snatch my opportunity to sketch
the portrait of this French-speaking Yorkshire gentleman.