CHAPTER III.
MR. YORKE.
Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as muchon the state of things within as on the state of things without andaround us. I make this trite remark, because I happen to know thatMessrs. Helstone and Moore trotted forth from the mill-yard gates, atthe head of their very small company, in the best possible spirits. Whena ray from a lantern (the three pedestrians of the party carried eachone) fell on Mr. Moore's face, you could see an unusual, because alively, spark dancing in his eyes, and a new-found vivacity mantling onhis dark physiognomy; and when the rector's visage was illuminated, hishard features were revealed all agrin and ashine with glee. Yet adrizzling night, a somewhat perilous expedition, you would think werenot circumstances calculated to enliven those exposed to the wet andengaged in the adventure. If any member or members of the crew who hadbeen at work on Stilbro' Moor had caught a view of this party, theywould have had great pleasure in shooting either of the leaders frombehind a wall: and the leaders knew this; and the fact is, being bothmen of steely nerves and steady-beating hearts, were elate with theknowledge.
I am aware, reader, and you need not remind me, that it is a dreadfulthing for a parson to be warlike; I am aware that he should be a man ofpeace. I have some faint outline of an idea of what a clergyman'smission is amongst mankind, and I remember distinctly whose servant heis, whose message he delivers, whose example he should follow; yet, withall this, if you are a parson-hater, you need not expect me to go alongwith you every step of your dismal, downward-tending, unchristian road;you need not expect me to join in your deep anathemas, at once so narrowand 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 ofthe diabolical rector of Briarfield.
He was not diabolical at all. The evil simply was--he had missed hisvocation. He should have been a soldier, and circumstances had made hima priest. For the rest, he was a conscientious, hard-headed,hard-handed, brave, stern, implacable, faithful little man; a man almostwithout sympathy, ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid, but a man true toprinciple, honourable, sagacious, and sincere. It seems to me, reader,that you cannot always cut out men to fit their profession, and that youought not to curse them because their profession sometimes hangs on themungracefully. Nor will I curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was. Yethe _was_ cursed, and by many of his own parishioners, as by others hewas adored--which is the frequent fate of men who show partiality infriendship and bitterness in enmity, who are equally attached toprinciples and adherent to prejudices.
Helstone and Moore being both in excellent spirits, and united for thepresent in one cause, you would expect that, as they rode side by side,they would converse amicably. Oh no! These two men, of hard, biliousnatures both, rarely came into contact but they chafed each other'smoods. Their frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone was ahigh Tory (there were Tories in those days), and Moore was a bitterWhig--a Whig, at least, as far as opposition to the war-party wasconcerned, that being the question which affected his own interest; andonly on that question did he profess any British politics at all. Heliked to infuriate Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibilityof Bonaparte, by taunting England and Europe with the impotence of theirefforts to withstand him, and by coolly advancing the opinion that itwas as well to yield to him soon as late, since he must in the end crushevery antagonist, and reign supreme.
Helstone could not bear these sentiments. It was only on theconsideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and alien, and having buthalf measure of British blood to temper the foreign gall which corrodedhis veins, that he brought himself to listen to them without indulgingthe wish he felt to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhatallayed his disgust--namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone withwhich these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistencyof Moore's crabbed contumacy.
As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, they met what little windthere was; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore had been fretting hiscompanion previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, and perhapsirritated 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 ofEngland has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the Frenchholocaust you want to offer up?"
"I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea theday it pleases him to lift his arm."
"But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what you say. Bonaparte'smarshals are great men, who act under the guidance of an omnipotentmaster-spirit. Your Wellington is the most humdrum of commonplacemartinets, whose slow, mechanical movements are further cramped by anignorant home government."
"Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the right champion ofa good cause, the fit representative of a powerful, a resolute, asensible, and an honest nation."
"Your good cause, as far as I understand it, is simply the restorationof that filthy, feeble Ferdinand to a throne which he disgraced. Yourfit representative of an honest people is a dull-witted drover, actingfor a duller-witted farmer; and against these are arrayed victorioussupremacy and invincible genius."
"Against legitimacy is arrayed usurpation; against modest,single-minded, righteous, and brave resistance to encroachment isarrayed boastful, double-tongued, selfish, and treacherous ambition topossess. God defend the right!"
"God often defends the powerful."
"What! I suppose the handful of Israelites standing dryshod on theAsiatic side of the Red Sea was more powerful than the host of theEgyptians drawn up on the African side? Were they more numerous? Werethey better appointed? Were they more mighty, in a word--eh? Don'tspeak, or you'll tell a lie, Moore; you know you will. They were a poor,overwrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants had oppressed them through fourhundred years; a feeble mixture of women and children diluted their thinranks; their masters, who roared to follow them through the dividedflood, were a set of pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as thelions of Libya. They were armed, horsed, and charioted; the poor Hebrewwanderers were afoot. Few of them, it is likely, had better weapons thantheir shepherds' crooks or their masons' building-tools; their meek andmighty 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 thelost archangel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, and which triumphed? Weknow that well. 'The Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of theEgyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore'--yea,'the depths covered them, they sank to the bottom as a stone.' The righthand of the Lord became glorious in power; the right hand of the Lorddashed 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 androtten 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 hehad just said an additional observation in a lower voice.
"Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses! He was the right thingthere, fit to head and organize measures for the regeneration ofnations. It puzzles me to this day how the conqueror of Lodi should havecondescended to become an emperor, a vulgar, a stupid humbug; and stillmore how a people who had once called themselves republicans should havesunk again to the grade of mere slaves. I despise France! If England hadgone as far on the march of civilization as France did, she would hardlyhave retreated so shamelessly."
"You don't mean to say that besotted imperial France is any worse thanbloody republican France?" demanded Helstone fiercely.
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"I mean to say nothing, but I can think what I please, you know, Mr.Helstone, both about France and England; and about revolutions, andregicides, and restorations in general; and about the divine right ofkings, which you often stickle for in your sermons, and the duty ofnon-resistance, and the sanity of war, and----"
Mr. Moore's sentence was here cut short by the rapid rolling up of agig, and its sudden stoppage in the middle of the road. Both he and therector had been too much occupied with their discourse to notice itsapproach till it was close upon them.
"Nah, maister; did th' wagons hit home?" demanded a voice from thevehicle.
"Can that be Joe Scott?"
"Ay, ay!" returned another voice; for the gig contained two persons, aswas seen by the glimmer of its lamp. The men with the lanterns had nowfallen into the rear, or rather, the equestrians of the rescue-party hadoutridden the pedestrians. "Ay, Mr. Moore, it's Joe Scott. I'm bringinghim back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top of the mooryonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him toyou?"
"Why, my thanks, I believe; for I could better have afforded to lose abetter 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 Igot 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'venaught to fear that I know of. I don't believe there's a lad in theseparts would harm me--at least, I'd give them as good as I got if theyoffered to do it. I said, 'Is there aught wrong anywhere?' ''Deed isthere,' 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 aditch,' 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 thegig-whip; for my notion was they were all fresh. 'We'd ha' done that anhour sin', but we're teed wi' a bit o' band,' says Joe. So in a while Igot down and loosed 'em wi' my penknife; and Scott would ride wi' me, totell me all how it happened; and t' others are coming on as fast astheir 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 restapproaching. And here, by the Lord, is another set with lights in theirpitchers, 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 verystiffly 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 offrame-breakers we could win a grand victory. We could iv'ry one be aWellington--that would please ye, Mr. Helstone--and sich paragraphs aswe could contrive for t' papers! Briarfield suld be famous. But we'sehev a column and a half i' th' _Stilbro' Courier_ ower this job, as itis, I dare say. I'se expect no less."
"And I'll promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for I'll write the articlemyself," returned the rector.
"To be sure--sartainly! And mind ye recommend weel that them 'at braket' bits o' frames, and teed Joe Scott's legs wi' band, suld be hungwithout benefit o' clergy. It's a hanging matter, or suld be. No doubto' that."
"If I judged them I'd give them short shrift!" cried Moore. "But I meanto let them quite alone this bout, to give them rope enough, certainthat 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 particulartrouble to catch them; but if one falls in my way----"
"You'll snap him up, of course. Only you would rather they would dosomething 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 mydoor, gentlemen, and I hope you and the men will step in. You will noneof 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 soinclement, and the gleam from the muslin-curtained windows of the housebefore which they had halted looked so inviting, that at length theyyielded. Mr. Yorke, after having alighted from his gig, which he left incharge of a man who issued from an outbuilding on his arrival, led theway in.
It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a little in hisphraseology. Now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and anon he expressed himselfin very pure English. His manner seemed liable to equal alternations. Hecould be polite and affable, and he could be blunt and rough. Hisstation 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 wereushered in at the front entrance. They found themselves in a mattedhall, lined almost to the ceiling with pictures. Through this they wereconducted to a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate--themost cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole, and when you came toexamine details, the enlivening effect was not diminished. There was nosplendour, but there was taste everywhere, unusual taste--the taste, youwould have said, of a travelled man, a scholar, and a gentleman. Aseries of Italian views decked the walls. Each of these was a specimenof true art. A connoisseur had selected them; they were genuine andvaluable. Even by candle-light the bright clear skies, the softdistances, with blue air quivering between the eye and the hills, thefresh tints, and well-massed lights and shadows, charmed the view. Thesubjects were all pastoral, the scenes were all sunny. There was aguitar and some music on a sofa; there were cameos, beautifulminiatures; a set of Grecian-looking vases on the mantelpiece; therewere books well arranged in two elegant bookcases.
Mr. Yorke bade his guests be seated. He then rang for wine. To theservant who brought it he gave hospitable orders for the refreshment ofthe men in the kitchen. The rector remained standing; he seemed not tolike 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 ofEastern customs, Mr. Helstone, and you'll not eat nor drink under myroof, feared we suld be forced to be friends; but I am not so particularor superstitious. You might sup the contents of that decanter, and youmight give me a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I'd holdmyself free to oppose you at every turn still--in every vestry-meetingand 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 dutyis a thorough pleasure. To hunt down vermin is a noble occupation, fitfor an archbishop."
"Fit for ye, at ony rate. But where's t' curate? He's happen gone tovisit some poor body in a sick gird, or he's happen hunting down verminin 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), "tokeep his courage up?"
He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly, still addressingMoore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned chair by thefireside--"Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take thesofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not this. It belangs tome, 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; andit's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for the main feck o' hisnotions."
"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'san 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 whetheryour Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"
"Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien amang us. His fatherwould never have talked i' that way.--Go back to Antwerp, where you wereborn and bred, mauvaise tete!"
"Mauvaise tete vous-meme; je ne fais que mon devoir; quant a voslourdauds de paysans, je m'en moque!"
"En ravanche, mon garcon, nos lourdauds de paysans se moqueront de toi;sois en certain," replied Yorke, speaking with nearly as pure a Frenchaccent as Gerard Moore.
"C'est bon! c'est bon! Et puisque cela m'est egal, que mes amis ne s'eninquietent pas."
"Tes amis! Ou sont-ils, tes amis?"
"Je fais echo, ou sont-ils? et je suis fort aise que l'echo seul yrepond. Au diable les amis! Je me souviens encore du moment ou mon pereet mes oncles Gerard appellerent autour d'eux leurs amis, et Dieu saitsi les amis se sont empresses d'accourir a 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 histhree-cornered carved oak chair, I will snatch my opportunity to sketchthe portrait of this French-speaking Yorkshire gentleman.