Shirley

  CHAPTER II.

  THE WAGONS.

  The evening was pitch dark: star and moon were quenched in grayrain-clouds--gray they would have been by day; by night they lookedsable. Malone was not a man given to close observation of nature; herchanges passed, for the most part, unnoticed by him. He could walk mileson the most varying April day and never see the beautiful dallying ofearth and heaven--never mark when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops, makingthem smile clear in green light, or when a shower wept over them, hidingtheir crests with the low-hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. Hedid not, therefore, care to contrast the sky as it now appeared--amuffled, streaming vault, all black, save where, towards the east, thefurnaces of Stilbro' ironworks threw a tremulous lurid shimmer on thehorizon--with the same sky on an unclouded frosty night. He did nottrouble himself to ask where the constellations and the planets weregone, or to regret the "black-blue" serenity of the air-ocean whichthose white islets stud, and which another ocean, of heavier and denserelement, now rolled below and concealed. He just doggedly pursued hisway, leaning a little forward as he walked, and wearing his hat on theback of his head, as his Irish manner was. "Tramp, tramp," he went alongthe causeway, where the road boasted the privilege of such anaccommodation; "splash, splash," through the mire-filled cart ruts,where the flags were exchanged for soft mud. He looked but for certainlandmarks--the spire of Briarfield Church; farther on, the lights ofRedhouse. This was an inn; and when he reached it, the glow of a firethrough a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table,and of revellers on an oaken settle, had nearly drawn aside the curatefrom his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler of whisky-and-water.In a strange place he would instantly have realized the dream; but thecompany assembled in that kitchen were Mr. Helstone's own parishioners;they all knew him. He sighed, and passed on.

  The highroad was now to be quitted, as the remaining distance toHollow's Mill might be considerably reduced by a short cut acrossfields. These fields were level and monotonous. Malone took a directcourse through them, jumping hedge and wall. He passed but one buildinghere, and that seemed large and hall-like, though irregular. You couldsee a high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick,lofty stack of chimneys. There were some trees behind it. It was dark;not a candle shone from any window. It was absolutely still; the rainrunning from the eaves, and the rather wild but very low whistle of thewind round the chimneys and through the boughs were the sole sounds inits neighbourhood.

  This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, declined in a rapiddescent. Evidently a vale lay below, through which you could hear thewater run. One light glimmered in the depth. For that beacon Malonesteered.

  He came to a little white house--you could see it was white even throughthis dense darkness--and knocked at the door. A fresh-faced servantopened it. By the candle she held was revealed a narrow passage,terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors covered with crimson baize, astrip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-colouredwalls and white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.

  "Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir, but he is not in."

  "Not in! Where is he then?"

  "At the mill--in the counting-house."

  Here one of the crimson doors opened.

  "Are the wagons come, Sarah?" asked a female voice, and a female head atthe same time was apparent. It might not be the head of agoddess--indeed a screw of curl-paper on each side the temples quiteforbade that supposition--but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; yetMalone seemed to take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrankbashfully back into the rain at the view thereof, and saying, "I'll goto him," hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across anobscure yard, towards a huge black mill.

  The work-hours were over; the "hands" were gone. The machinery was atrest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round it. Somewhere in its greatsooty flank he found another chink of light; he knocked at anotherdoor, using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelah, with whichhe beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.

  "Is it Joe Scott? What news of the wagons, Joe?"

  "No; it's myself. Mr. Helstone would send me."

  "Oh! Mr. Malone." The voice in uttering this name had the slightestpossible cadence of disappointment. After a moment's pause it continued,politely but a little formally,--

  "I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely Mr. Helstoneshould have thought it necessary to trouble you so far. There was nonecessity--I told him so--and on such a night; but walk forwards."

  Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable, Malone followedthe speaker into a light and bright room within--very light and brightindeed it seemed to eyes which, for the last hour, had been striving topenetrate the double darkness of night and fog; but except for itsexcellent fire, and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustreburning on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor wascarpetless; the three or four stiff-backed, green-painted chairs seemedonce to have furnished the kitchen of some farm-house; a desk of strong,solid formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed sheets on thestone-coloured walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designsof machinery, etc., completed the furniture of the place.

  Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone, who, when he had removedand hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-lookingchairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost within the bars of thered grate.

  "Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore; and all snug toyourself."

  "Yes, but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would preferstepping into the house."

  "Oh no! The ladies are best alone, I never was a lady's man. You don'tmistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you, Mr. Moore?"

  "Sweeting! Which of them is that? The gentleman in the chocolateovercoat, or the little gentleman?"

  "The little one--he of Nunnely; the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, withthe whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!"

  "Better be generally in love with all than specially with one, I shouldthink, in that quarter."

  "But he is specially in love with one besides, for when I and Donneurged him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy, he named--which do youthink?"

  With a queer, quiet smile Mr. Moore replied, "Dora, of course, orHarriet."

  "Ha! ha! you've an excellent guess. But what made you hit on those two?"

  "Because they are the tallest, the handsomest, and Dora, at least, isthe stoutest; and as your friend Mr. Sweeting is but a little slightfigure, I concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such cases, hepreferred his contrast."

  "You are right; Dora it is. But he has no chance, has he, Moore?"

  "What has Mr. Sweeting besides his curacy?"

  This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly. He laughed for fullthree minutes before he answered it.

  "What has Sweeting? Why, David has his harp, or flute, which comes tothe same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck watch; ditto, ring; ditto,eyeglass. That's what he has."

  "How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns only?"

  "Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see him. I'll roasthim for his presumption. But no doubt he expects old Christopher Sykeswould do something handsome. He is rich, is he not? They live in a largehouse."

  "Sykes carries on an extensive concern."

  "Therefore he must be wealthy, eh?"

  "Therefore he must have plenty to do with his wealth, and in these timeswould be about as likely to think of drawing money from the business togive dowries to his daughters as I should be to dream of pulling downthe cottage there, and constructing on its ruins a house as large asFieldhead."

  "Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day?"

  "No. Perhaps that I _was_ about to effect some such change. YourBriarfield gossips are capable of saying that or sillier things."

  "That you were going to take Fieldhead on a lease (I thought it looked adismal place, by-t
he-bye, to-night, as I passed it), and that it wasyour intention to settle a Miss Sykes there as mistress--to be married,in short, ha! ha! Now, which is it? Dora, I am sure. You said she wasthe handsomest."

  "I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be married since Icame to Briarfield. They have assigned me every marriageable singlewoman by turns in the district. Now it was the two Misses Wynns--firstthe dark, then the light one; now the red-haired Miss Armitage; then themature Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders all the tribeof the Misses Sykes. On what grounds this gossip rests God knows. Ivisit nowhere; I seek female society about as assiduously as you do, Mr.Malone. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson acall in their counting-house, where our discussions run on other topicsthan matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other things thancourtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth we can't sell, the handswe can't employ, the mills we can't run, the perverse course of eventsgenerally, which we cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, prettywell at present, to the tolerably complete exclusion of such figments aslove-making, etc."

  "I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hatemore than another, it is that of marriage--I mean marriage in the vulgarweak sense, as a mere matter of sentiment--two beggarly fools agreeingto unite their indigence by some fantastic tie of feeling. Humbug! Butan advantageous connection, such as can be formed in consonance withdignity of views and permanency of solid interests, is not so bad--eh?"

  "No," responded Moore, in an absent manner. The subject seemed to haveno interest for him; he did not pursue it. After sitting for some timegazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.

  "Hark!" said he. "Did you hear wheels?"

  Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened. He soon closedit. "It is only the sound of the wind rising," he remarked, "and therivulet a little swollen, rushing down the hollow. I expected thosewagons at six; it is near nine now."

  "Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this new machinerywill bring you into danger?" inquired Malone. "Helstone seems to thinkit will."

  "I only wish the machines--the frames--were safe here, and lodged withinthe walls of this mill. Once put up, I defy the frame-breakers. Let themonly pay me a visit and take the consequences. My mill is my castle."

  "One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone, in a profound veinof reflection. "I almost wish a party would call upon you to-night; butthe road seemed extremely quiet as I came along. I saw nothing astir."

  "You came by the Redhouse?"

  "Yes."

  "There would be nothing on that road. It is in the direction of Stilbro'the risk lies."

  "And you think there is risk?"

  "What these fellows have done to others they may do to me. There is onlythis difference: most of the manufacturers seem paralyzed when they areattacked. Sykes, for instance, when his dressing-shop was set on fireand burned to the ground, when the cloth was torn from his tenters andleft in shreds in the field, took no steps to discover or punish themiscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under the jaws of a ferret.Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade, my mill, and mymachinery."

  "Helstone says these three are your gods; that the 'Orders in Council'are with you another name for the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh isyour Antichrist, and the war-party his legions."

  "Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me. They stand in myway. I cannot get on. I cannot execute my plans because of them. I seemyself baffled at every turn by their untoward effects."

  "But you are rich and thriving, Moore?"

  "I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. You should step into mywarehouse yonder, and observe how it is piled to the roof with pieces.Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition. America used to be theirmarket, but the Orders in Council have cut that off."

  Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a conversation of thissort. He began to knock the heels of his boots together, and to yawn.

  "And then to think," continued Mr. Moore who seemed too much taken upwith the current of his own thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest's_ennui_--"to think that these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury andBriarfield will keep pestering one about being married! As if there wasnothing to be done in life but to 'pay attention,' as they say, to someyoung lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to start on abridal tour, and then to run through a round of visits, and then, Isuppose, to be 'having a family.' Oh, que le diable emporte!" He brokeoff the aspiration into which he was launching with a certain energy,and added, more calmly, "I believe women talk and think only of thesethings, and they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied."

  "Of course--of course," assented Malone; "but never mind them." And hewhistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want ofsomething. This time Moore caught and, it appeared, comprehended hisdemonstrations.

  "Mr. Malone," said he, "you must require refreshment after your wetwalk. I forget hospitality."

  "Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was atlast hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.

  "It is my fancy," said he, "to have every convenience within myself, andnot to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage yonder for everymouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and suphere alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my ownwatchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night towander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone,can you cook a mutton chop?"

  "Try me. I've done it hundreds of times at college."

  "There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly.You know the secret of keeping the juices in?"

  "Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please."

  The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookerywith vigour. The manufacturer placed on the table plates, a loaf ofbread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copperkettle--still from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard--filled itwith water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire besidethe hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl;but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.

  "Is it you, Sarah?"

  "Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"

  "No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock thedoors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."

  He returned.

  "You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly,as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, heassiduously turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoatgovernment, like poor Sweeting, a man--whew! how the fat spits! it hasburnt my hand--destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I,Moore--there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy--you and Iwill have no gray mares in our stables when we marry."

  "I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray mare is handsome andtractable, why not?"

  "The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"

  "There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions returnthey shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the framesintact."

  Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed aloud at trifles,made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grewunmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before.It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance ofthis same host. I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table.

  He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather astrange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, sallow, very foreign ofaspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. It appearsthat he spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange itwith more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, thatthey have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in theirchiselling; nor does a spectator become aware of thi
s advantage till hehas examined him well, for an anxious countenance and a hollow, somewhathaggard, outline of face disturb the idea of beauty with one of care.His eyes are large, and grave, and gray; their expression is intent andmeditative, rather searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial.When he parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agreeable--notthat it is frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of acertain sedate charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of aconsiderate, perhaps a kind nature, of feelings that may wear well athome--patient, forbearing, possibly faithful feelings. He is stillyoung--not more than thirty; his stature is tall, his figure slender.His manner of speaking displeases. He has an outlandish accent, which,notwithstanding a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction,grates on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire, ear.

  Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely that. He came ofa foreign ancestry by the mother's side, and was himself born and partlyreared on a foreign soil. A hybrid in nature, it is probable he had ahybrid's feeling on many points--patriotism for one; it is likely thathe was unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes andcustoms; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate hisindividual person from any community amidst which his lot mighttemporarily happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to be his bestwisdom to push the interests of Robert Gerard Moore, to the exclusion ofphilanthropic consideration for general interests, with which heregarded the said Gerard Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Tradewas Mr. Moore's hereditary calling: the Gerards of Antwerp had beenmerchants for two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy merchants;but the uncertainties, the involvements, of business had come upon them;disastrous speculations had loosened by degrees the foundations of theircredit. The house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen years; andat last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had rushed down atotal ruin. In its fall was involved the English and Yorkshire firm ofMoore, closely connected with the Antwerp house, and of which one of thepartners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore, had married HortenseGerard, with the prospect of his bride inheriting her father ConstantineGerard's share in the business. She inherited, as we have seen, but hisshare in the liabilities of the firm; and these liabilities, though dulyset aside by a composition with creditors, some said her son Robertaccepted, in his turn, as a legacy, and that he aspired one day todischarge them, and to rebuild the fallen house of Gerard and Moore on ascale at least equal to its former greatness. It was even supposed thathe took by-past circumstances much to heart; and if a childhood passedat the side of a saturnine mother, under foreboding of coming evil, anda manhood drenched and blighted by the pitiless descent of the storm,could painfully impress the mind, _his_ probably was impressed in nogolden characters.

  If, however, he had a great end of restoration in view, it was not inhis power to employ great means for its attainment. He was obliged to becontent with the day of small things. When he came to Yorkshire,he--whose ancestors had owned warehouses in this seaport, and factoriesin that inland town, had possessed their town-house and theircountry-seat--saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill in anout-of-the-way nook of an out-of-the-way district; to take a cottageadjoining it for his residence, and to add to his possessions, aspasture for his horse, and space for his cloth-tenters, a few acres ofthe steep, rugged land that lined the hollow through which hismill-stream brawled. All this he held at a somewhat high rent (for thesewar times were hard, and everything was dear) of the trustees of theFieldhead estate, then the property of a minor.

  At the time this history commences, Robert Moore had lived but two yearsin the district, during which period he had at least proved himselfpossessed of the quality of activity. The dingy cottage was convertedinto a neat, tasteful residence. Of part of the rough land he had madegarden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with Flemish,exactness and care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, andfitted up with old machinery, now become inefficient and out of date, hehad from the first evinced the strongest contempt for all itsarrangements and appointments. His aim had been to effect a radicalreform, which he had executed as fast as his very limited capital wouldallow; and the narrowness of that capital, and consequent check on hisprogress, was a restraint which galled his spirit sorely. Moore everwanted to push on. "Forward" was the device stamped upon his soul; butpoverty curbed him. Sometimes (figuratively) he foamed at the mouth whenthe reins were drawn very tight.

  In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected that he woulddeliberate much as to whether his advance was or was not prejudicial toothers. Not being a native, nor for any length of time a resident of theneighbourhood, he did not sufficiently care when the new inventionsthrew the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself wherethose to whom he no longer paid weekly wages found daily bread; and inthis negligence he only resembled thousands besides, on whom thestarving poor of Yorkshire seemed to have a closer claim.

  The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in British history,and especially in the history of the northern provinces. War was thenat its height. Europe was all involved therein. England, if not weary,was worn with long resistance--yes, and half her people were weary too,and cried out for peace on any terms. National honour was become a mereempty name, of no value in the eyes of many, because their sight was dimwith famine; and for a morsel of meat they would have sold theirbirthright.

  The "Orders in Council," provoked by Napoleon's Milan and Berlindecrees, and forbidding neutral powers to trade with France, had, byoffending America, cut off the principal market of the Yorkshire woollentrade, and brought it consequently to the verge of ruin. Minor foreignmarkets were glutted, and would receive no more. The Brazils, Portugal,Sicily, were all overstocked by nearly two years' consumption. At thiscrisis certain inventions in machinery were introduced into the staplemanufactures of the north, which, greatly reducing the number of handsnecessary to be employed, threw thousands out of work, and left themwithout legitimate means of sustaining life. A bad harvest supervened.Distress reached its climax. Endurance, overgoaded, stretched the handof fraternity to sedition. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake werefelt heaving under the hills of the northern counties. But, as is usualin such cases, nobody took much notice. When a food-riot broke out in amanufacturing town, when a gig-mill was burnt to the ground, or amanufacturer's house was attacked, the furniture thrown into thestreets, and the family forced to flee for their lives, some localmeasures were or were not taken by the local magistracy. A ringleaderwas detected, or more frequently suffered to elude detection; newspaperparagraphs were written on the subject, and there the thing stopped. Asto the sufferers, whose sole inheritance was labour, and who had lostthat inheritance--who could not get work, and consequently could not getwages, and consequently could not get bread--they were left to sufferon, perhaps inevitably left. It would not do to stop the progress ofinvention, to damage science by discouraging its improvements; the warcould not be terminated; efficient relief could not be raised. There wasno help then; so the unemployed underwent their destiny--ate the breadand drank the waters of affliction.

  Misery generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines which theybelieved took their bread from them; they hated the buildings whichcontained those machines; they hated the manufacturers who owned thosebuildings. In the parish of Briarfield, with which we have at present todo, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable; Gerard Moore, inhis double character of semi-foreigner and thorough-going progressist,the man most abominated. And it perhaps rather agreed with Moore'stemperament than otherwise to be generally hated, especially when hebelieved the thing for which he was hated a right and an expedientthing; and it was with a sense of warlike excitement he, on this night,sat in his counting-house waiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons.Malone's coming and company were, it may be, most unwelcome to him. Hewould have preferred sitting alone; for he liked a silent, sombre,unsafe solitude. His watchman's musket would have been company enoughfor him; the full-flowing
beck in the den would have deliveredcontinuously the discourse most genial to his ear.

  * * * * *

  With the queerest look in the world had the manufacturer for some tenminutes been watching the Irish curate, as the latter made free with thepunch, when suddenly that steady gray eye changed, as if another visioncame between it and Malone. Moore raised his hand.

  "Chut!" he said in his French fashion, as Malone made a noise with hisglass. He listened a moment, then rose, put his hat on, and went out atthe counting-house door.

  The night was still, dark, and stagnant: the water yet rushed on fulland fast; its flow almost seemed a flood in the utter silence. Moore'sear, however, caught another sound, very distant but yet dissimilar,broken and rugged--in short, a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stonyroad. He returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with which hewalked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. The bigwagons were coming on; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashingin the mud and water. Moore hailed them.

  "Hey, Joe Scott! Is all right?"

  Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance to hear the inquiry.He did not answer it.

  "Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore, when the elephant-likeleader's nose almost touched his.

  Some one jumped out from the foremost wagon into the road; a voice criedaloud, "Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We've smashed 'em."

  And there was a run. The wagons stood still; they were now deserted.

  "Joe Scott!" No Joe Scott answered. "Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!" Noreply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern and looked into the vehicles. Therewas neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.

  Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his capitalon the purchase of these frames and shears which to-night had beenexpected. Speculations most important to his interests depended on theresults to be wrought by them. Where were they?

  The words "we've smashed 'em" rang in his ears. How did the catastropheaffect him? By the light of the lantern he held were his featuresvisible, relaxing to a singular smile--the smile the man of determinedspirit wears when he reaches a juncture in his life where thisdetermined spirit is to feel a demand on its strength, when the strainis to be made, and the faculty must bear or break. Yet he remainedsilent, and even motionless; for at the instant he neither knew what tosay nor what to do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood withhis arms folded, gazing down and reflecting.

  An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him presently look up.His eye in the moment caught the gleam of something white attached to apart of the harness. Examined by the light of the lantern this proved tobe a folded paper--a billet. It bore no address without; within was thesuperscription:--

  "To the Divil of Hollow's Miln."

  We will not copy the rest of the orthography, which was very peculiar,but translate it into legible English. It ran thus:--

  "Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor, and yourmen are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take thisas a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives andchildren to go home to when they have done this deed. If you get newmachines, or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall hearfrom us again. Beware!"

  "Hear from you again? Yes, I'll hear from you again, and you shall hearfrom me. I'll speak to you directly. On Stilbro' Moor you shall hearfrom me in a moment."

  Having led the wagons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage.Opening the door, he spoke a few words quickly but quietly to twofemales who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the seeming alarmof one by a brief palliative account of what had taken place; to theother he said, "Go into the mill, Sarah--there is the key--and ring themill-bell as loud as you can. Afterwards you will get another lanternand help me to light up the front."

  Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled them withequal speed and care, pausing occasionally, while so occupied, as if tolisten for the mill-bell. It clanged out presently, with irregular butloud and alarming din. The hurried, agitated peal seemed more urgentthan if the summons had been steadily given by a practised hand. On thatstill night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round. Theguests in the kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by the clamour, anddeclaring that "there must be summat more nor common to do at Hollow'sMiln," they called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. Andscarcely had they thronged into the yard with their gleaming lights,when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat,sitting erect on the back of a shaggy pony, "rode lightly in," followedby an aide-de-camp mounted on a larger steed.

  Mr. Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray-horses, had saddled hishackney, and with the aid of Sarah, the servant, lit up his mill, whosewide and long front now glared one great illumination, throwing asufficient light on the yard to obviate all fear of confusion arisingfrom obscurity. Already a deep hum of voices became audible. Mr. Malonehad at length issued from the counting-house, previously taking theprecaution to dip his head and face in the stone water-jug; and thisprecaution, together with the sudden alarm, had nearly restored to himthe possession of those senses which the punch had partially scattered.He stood with his hat on the back of his head, and his shillelah graspedin his dexter fist, answering much at random the questions of thenewly-arrived party from the Redhouse. Mr. Moore now appeared, and wasimmediately confronted by the shovel hat and the shaggy pony.

  "Well, Moore, what is your business with us? I thought you would want usto-night--me and the hetman here (patting his pony's neck), and Tom andhis charger. When I heard your mill-bell I could sit still no longer, soI left Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the enemy? I donot see a mask or a smutted face present; and there is not a pane ofglass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do you expectone?"

  "Oh, not at all! I have neither had one nor expect one," answered Moorecoolly. "I only ordered the bell to be rung because I want two or threeneighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I and a couple or so more goover to Stilbro' Moor."

  "To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To meet the wagons?"

  "The wagons are come home an hour ago."

  "Then all's right. What more would you have?"

  "They came home empty; and Joe Scott and company are left on the moor,and so are the frames. Read that scrawl."

  Mr. Helstone received and perused the document of which the contentshave before been given.

  "Hum! They've only served you as they serve others. But, however, thepoor fellows in the ditch will be expecting help with some impatience.This is a wet night for such a berth. I and Tom will go with you. Malonemay stay behind and take care of the mill. What is the matter with him?His eyes seem starting out of his head."

  "He has been eating a mutton chop."

  "Indeed!--Peter Augustus, be on your guard. Eat no more mutton chopsto-night. You are left here in command of these premises--an honourablepost!"

  "Is anybody to stay with me?"

  "As many of the present assemblage as choose.--My lads, how many of youwill remain here, and how many will go a little way with me and Mr.Moore on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who have been waylaid andassaulted by frame-breakers?"

  The small number of three volunteered to go; the rest preferred stayingbehind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse, the rector asked him in a lowvoice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, so that Peter Augustuscould not get at them? The manufacturer nodded an affirmative, and therescue-party set out.