Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne is almost too proud to do aught for theirseln; _we_ are almost too proud to let anybody do aught for us.


T' curates can hardly bide to speak a civil word to them they think beneath them; _we_ can hardly bide to tak an uncivil word fro' them that thinks themseln aboon us."

They can hardly speak a civil word to them they think beneath them."

Chapter 18: WHICH THE GENTEEL READER IS RECOMMENDED TO SKIP, LOW PERSONS BEING HERE INTRODUCED


"Now, William, be humble enough to tell me truly how you are getting on in the world.

"Now, William," said Shirley. "be humble enough to tell me truly how you are getting on.


Since I got into t' gardening line, wi' Mr. Yorke's help, and since Mr. Hall (another o' t' raight sort) helped my wife to set up a bit of a shop, I've nought to complain of.

Since I got into t' gardening line, wi' Mr. Yorke's help, and since Mr. Hall helped my wife to set up a bit of a shop, I've nought to complain of.


My family has plenty to eat and plenty to wear.


My pride makes me find means to have an odd pound now and then against rainy days; for I think I'd die afore I'd come to t' parish; and me and mine is content.


"And, consequently, there is still discontent, I suppose?"

"And consequently, there is still discontent, I suppose?"


In course, starving folk cannot be satisfied or settled folk.


The country's not in a safe condition--I'll say so mich!"


Ye've gi'en your brass; ye've done well.

Ye've given your brass; ye've done well.


If ye could transport your tenant, Mr. Moore, to Botany Bay, ye'd happen do better.

If ye could transport your tenant, Mr. Moore, to Botany Bay, ye'd do better.


"If folks _do_ hate him, it is to their disgrace, not his.

"If folks do hate him, it is to their disgrace, not his.


He only wants to do his duty, and maintain his rights.


He has a cold, unfeeling heart, yond' Moore."


"But," interposed Shirley, "supposing Moore was driven from the country, and his mill razed to the ground, would people have more work?"


I know that, and they know that; and there is many an honest lad driven desperate by the certainty that whichever way he turns he cannot better himself; and there is dishonest men plenty to guide them to the devil, scoundrels that reckons to be the 'people's friends,' and that knows nought about the people, and is as insincere as Lucifer.

I know that, and they know that; and there is many an honest lad driven desperate by the certainty that whichever way he turns he cannot better himself; and there is dishonest men aplenty to guide them to the devil, scoundrels that reckons to be the 'people's friends,' and that knows nought about the people, and is as insincere as Lucifer.


I've lived aboon forty year in the world, and I believe that 'the people' will never have any true friends but theirseln and them two or three good folk i' different stations that is friends to all the world.


Human natur', taking it i' th' lump, is nought but selfishness.


It is but excessive few, it is but just an exception here and there, now and then, sich as ye two young uns and me, that, being in a different sphere, can understand t' one t' other, and be friends wi'out slavishness o' one hand or pride o' t' other.

It is but just an exception here and there, sich as ye two young uns and me, that, though in a different sphere, can understand t' one t' other, and be friends.


Them that reckons to be friends to a lower class than their own fro' political motives is never to be trusted; they always try to make their inferiors tools.

Them that reckons to be friends to a lower class from political motives is never to be trusted; they always try to make their inferiors tools.


For my own part, I will neither be patronized nor misled for no man's pleasure.

For my own part, I will not be patronized.


I've had overtures made to me lately that I saw were treacherous, and I flung 'em back i' the faces o' them that offered 'em."


Them they concerned can look after theirseln."


"Ay, we'se look after werseln," said another voice.


Joe Scott had sauntered forth from the church to get a breath of fresh air, and there he stood.

Joe Scott had sauntered forth from the church.


"I'll warrant _ye_, Joe," observed William, smiling.

"I'll warrant ye, Joe," observed William, smiling.


"And I'll warrant my maister," was the answer.--"Young ladies," continued Joe, assuming a lordly air, "ye'd better go into th' house."

"And I'll warrant my maister," was the answer. "Young ladies," continued Joe, assuming a lordly air, "ye'd better go into th' house."


inquired Shirley, to whom the overlooker's somewhat pragmatical manners were familiar, and who was often at war with him; for Joe, holding supercilious theories about women in general, resented greatly, in his secret soul, the fact of his master and his master's mill being, in a manner, under petticoat government, and had felt as wormwood and gall certain business visits of the heiress to the Hollow's counting-house.

inquired Shirley, who was often at war with the overlooker; for Joe, holding supercilious theories about women in general, resented greatly, in his secret soul, the fact of his master and his master's mill being under petticoat government.


"Because there is nought agate that fits women to be consarned in."

"Because politics is not fit for women to be consarned in."


There is prayer and preaching agate in that church.


"Ye have been present neither at the prayer nor preaching, ma'am, if I have observed aright.


William Farren here was touching on that subject, if I'm not mista'en."


"Well, what then? Politics are our habitual study, Joe.


Do you know I see a newspaper every day, and two of a Sunday?"


"I should think you'll read the marriages, probably, miss, and the murders, and the accidents, and sich like?"

"To read the marriages, probably, miss, and the murders, and sich like."


"I read the leading articles, Joe, and the foreign intelligence, and I look over the market prices.

"I read the leading articles, Joe, and the foreign news, and I look over the market prices.


In short, I read just what gentlemen read."


Joe looked as if he thought this talk was like the chattering of a pie. He replied to it by a disdainful silence.

Joe looked as disdainful as if this talk was the chattering of a magpie.


"Joe," continued Miss Keeldar, "I never yet could ascertain properly whether you are a Whig or a Tory.

"Joe," continued Miss Keeldar, "I cannot work out whether you are a Whig or a Tory.


Pray, which party has the honour of your alliance?"


"It is rayther difficult to explain where you are sure not to be understood," was Joe's haughty response; "but as to being a Tory, I'd as soon be an old woman, or a young one, which is a more flimsier article still.

"It is rather difficult to explain where you won't be understood," was Joe's haughty response; "but as to being a Tory, I'd as soon be an old woman.


It is the Tories that carries on the war and ruins trade; and if I be of any party--though political parties is all nonsense--I'm of that which is most favourable to peace, and, by consequence, to the mercantile interests of this here land."

It is the Tories that carries on the war and ruins trade; and if I be of any party - though political parties is all nonsense - I'm of that which is most favourable to peace, and, by consequence, to business."


"So am I, Joe," replied Shirley, who had rather a pleasure in teasing the overlooker, by persisting in talking on subjects with which he opined she, as a woman, had no right to meddle--"partly, at least.

"So am I, Joe," replied Shirley, who rather enjoyed talking to him on subjects with which he thought women had no right to meddle.


I have rather a leaning to the agricultural interest, too; as good reason is, seeing that I don't desire England to be under the feet of France, and that if a share of my income comes from Hollow's Mill, a larger share comes from the landed estate around it.

"I have rather a leaning to the agricultural interest, too; if some of my income comes from Hollow's Mill, more comes from the landed estate around it.


It would not do to take any measures injurious to the farmers, Joe, I think?"


"The dews at this hour is unwholesome for females," observed Joe.


"If you make that remark out of interest in me, I have merely to assure you that I am impervious to cold.


I should not mind taking my turn to watch the mill one of these summer nights, armed with your musket, Joe."


Joe Scott's chin was always rather prominent. He poked it out, at this speech, some inches farther than usual.

At this speech, Joe poked out his chin some inches farther than usual.


"But--to go back to my sheep," she proceeded--"clothier and mill-owner as I am, besides farmer, I cannot get out of my head a certain idea that we manufacturers and persons of business are sometimes a little--a _very little_--selfish and short-sighted in our views, and rather _too_ regardless of human suffering, rather heartless in our pursuit of gain.

"But I cannot get out of my head," she proceeded, "an idea that we manufacturers and people of business are sometimes a little selfish and short-sighted in our views, and too regardless of human suffering.


"I cannot argue where I cannot be comprehended," was again the answer.


Your master will argue with me sometimes, Joe.


"Joe, do you seriously think all the wisdom in the world is lodged in male skulls?"


"I think that women are a kittle and a froward generation; and I've a great respect for the doctrines delivered in the second chapter of St. Paul's first Epistle to Timothy."

"I think that women are a kittle and a froward generation; and I've a great respect for the doctrines of St. Paul's first Epistle to Timothy.


"'Let the woman learn in silence, with all subjection.


I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.


"What has that to do with the business?"


"That smacks of rights of primogeniture.


I'll bring it up to Mr. Yorke the first time he inveighs against those rights."


"And," continued Joe Scott, "Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression."


"More shame to Adam to sin with his eyes open!"


"To confess the honest truth, Joe, I never was easy in my mind concerning that chapter.


"He may read it in his own fashion," remarked Caroline, now joining in the dialogue for the first time.

Caroline now joined in the dialogue for the first time.


"You allow the right of private judgment, I suppose, Joe?"


I allow and claim it for every line of the holy Book."

I allow it for every line of the holy Book."


Women is to take their husbands' opinion, both in politics and religion.

Women is to take their husbands' opinion.


"To be sure; no doubt on't," persisted the stubborn overlooker.


"Consider yourself groaned down, and cried shame over, for such a stupid observation," said Miss Keeldar.


"You might as well say men are to take the opinions of their priests without examination.


Of what value would a religion so adopted be? It would be mere blind, besotted superstition."

Such a religion would be mere blind, besotted superstition."


"And what is _your_ reading, Miss Helstone, o' these words o' St. Paul's?"

"And what is your reading, Miss Helstone, o' these words o' St. Paul's?"


"I account for them in this way," said Caroline.


He wrote that chapter for a particular congregation of Christians, under peculiar circumstances; and besides, I dare say, if I could read the original Greek, I should find that many of the words have been wrongly translated, perhaps misapprehended altogether.

"He wrote that chapter for a particular congregation of Christians, under peculiar circumstances; and besides, I dare say, if I could read the original Greek, I should find that many of the words have been wrongly translated, perhaps misunderstood altogether.


It would be possible, I doubt not, with a little ingenuity, to give the passage quite a contrary turn--to make it say, 'Let the woman speak out whenever she sees fit to make an objection.'

It would be possible, I doubt not, to give the passage quite a contrary turn."


'It is permitted to a woman to teach and to exercise authority as much as may be.


Man, meantime, cannot do better than hold his peace;' and so on."


My notions are dyed in faster colours than yours, Joe. Mr. Scott, you are a thoroughly dogmatical person, and always were.

Joe, you are a thoroughly dogmatical person.


"Joe is well enough in his own house," said Shirley.


"I have seen him as quiet as a lamb at home.


There is not a better nor a kinder husband in Briarfield.

There is not a kinder husband in Briarfield.


"My wife is a hard-working, plain woman; time and trouble has ta'en all the conceit out of her.


But that is not the case with you, young misses.


And then you reckon to have so much knowledge; and i' my thoughts it's only superficial sort o' vanities you're acquainted with.

And then you reckon to have so much knowledge; and it's only superficial.


I can tell--happen a year sin'--one day Miss Caroline coming into our counting-house when I war packing up summat behind t' great desk, and she didn't see me, and she brought a slate wi' a sum on it to t' maister.

One day Miss Caroline came into our counting-house when I war behind t' great desk, and she didn't see me, and she brought a slate wi' a sum on it to t' maister.


It war only a bit of a sum in practice, that our Harry would have settled i' two minutes.

Uur Harry would have settled it i' two minutes.


And when he did show her, she couldn't understand him."


And Miss Shirley there reckons to hearken to t' maister when he's talking ower trade, so attentive like, as if she followed him word for word, and all war as clear as a lady's looking-glass to her een; and all t' while she's peeping and peeping out o' t' window to see if t' mare stands quiet; and then looking at a bit of a splash on her riding-skirt; and then glancing glegly round at wer counting-house cobwebs and dust, and thinking what mucky folk we are, and what a grand ride she'll have just i' now ower Nunnely Common.

And Miss Shirley there reckons to hearken to t' maister when he's talking ower trade, so attentive like, as if she followed him word for word; and all t' while she's peeping out o' t' window to see t' mare; and then looking at a bit of a splash on her riding-skirt; and then glancing round at wer counting-house cobwebs, and thinking what mucky folk we are, and what a grand ride she'll have ower Nunnely Common.


She hears no more o' Mr. Moore's talk nor if he spake Hebrew."


I would give you your answer, only the people are coming out of church.

I would answer you, only the people are coming out of church.


Man of prejudice, good-bye.--William, good-bye.--Children, come up to Fieldhead to-morrow, and you shall choose what you like best out of Mrs. Gill's store-room."

Man of prejudice, good-bye. William, good-bye. Children, come up to Fieldhead tomorrow, and you shall choose what you like best out of Mrs. Gill's store-room."


Only half of Moore's activity and resolution had been seen in his defence of the mill; he showed the other half (and a terrible half it was) in the indefatigable, the relentless assiduity with which he pursued the leaders of the riot.

Only half of Moore's activity and resolution had been seen in his defence of the mill; he showed the other half (and a terrible half it was) in the relentless way in which he pursued the leaders of the riot.


The mob, the mere followers, he let alone. Perhaps an innate sense of justice told him that men misled by false counsel and goaded by privations are not fit objects of vengeance, and that he who would visit an even violent act on the bent head of suffering is a tyrant, not a judge.

The mob, the mere followers, he let alone, perhaps thinking that men misled and goaded by hunger are not fit objects of vengeance.


At all events, though he knew many of the number, having recognized them during the latter part of the attack when day began to dawn, he let them daily pass him on street and road without notice or threat.

At all events, though he had recognised many of the mob, he daily let them pass on the street without threat.


They were strangers--emissaries from the large towns.

They were strangers from the large towns.


Most of these were not members of the operative class. They were chiefly "down-draughts," bankrupts, men always in debt and often in drink, men who had nothing to lose, and much, in the way of character, cash, and cleanliness, to gain.

Most were not mill-workers; they were chiefly bankrupts, men in debt and often in drink, who had nothing to lose, and much to gain.


These persons Moore hunted like any sleuth-hound, and well he liked the occupation.

These persons Moore hunted, and the occupation suited him.


Its excitement was of a kind pleasant to his nature.


His horse must have hated these times, for it was ridden both hard and often.


He almost lived on the road, and the fresh air was as welcome to his lungs as the policeman's quest to his mood; he preferred it to the steam of dye-houses.

He almost lived on the road, welcoming the fresh air after the steam of dye-houses.


The magistrates of the district must have dreaded him.

The magistrates of the district dreaded him.


They were slow, timid men; he liked both to frighten and to rouse them. He liked to force them to betray a certain fear, which made them alike falter in resolve and recoil in action--the fear, simply, of assassination.

They were slow, timid men, who faltered in resolve and recoiled through fear - the fear of assassination.


This, indeed, was the dread which had hitherto hampered every manufacturer and almost every public man in the district.

This, indeed, was the dread which had hampered every manufacturer in the district.


The old Cossack knew well he might be shot.


He knew there was risk; but such death had for his nerves no terrors.


It would have been his chosen, might he have had a choice.


Moore likewise knew his danger. The result was an unquenchable scorn of the quarter whence such danger was to be apprehended.

Moore knew his danger, and scorned those who would endanger him.


The consciousness that he hunted assassins was the spur in his high-mettled temper's flank.

The knowledge that he hunted assassins was a spur to him.


As for fear, he was too proud, too hard-natured (if you will), too phlegmatic a man to fear. Many a time he rode belated over the moors, moonlit or moonless as the case might be, with feelings far more elate, faculties far better refreshed, than when safety and stagnation environed him in the counting-house.

As for fear, many a night he rode over the moors feeling far more elated and refreshed than when safety and stagnation cocooned him in the counting-house.


Four was the number of the leaders to be accounted for.


Two, in the course of a fortnight, were brought to bay near Stilbro'; the remaining two it was necessary to seek farther off. Their haunts were supposed to lie near Birmingham.

Two, within a fortnight, were caught near Stilbro'; the remaining two were thought to be near Birmingham.


Meantime the clothier did not neglect his battered mill.

Meantime Moore did not neglect his battered mill.


Its reparation was esteemed a light task, carpenters' and glaziers' work alone being needed. The rioters not having succeeded in effecting an entrance, his grim metal darlings--the machines--had escaped damage.

Only the windows needed repairing; his grim metal darlings - the machines - had escaped damage.


Whether during this busy life--whether while stern justice and exacting business claimed his energies and harassed his thoughts--he now and then gave one moment, dedicated one effort, to keep alive gentler fires than those which smoulder in the fane of Nemesis, it was not easy to discover.

Whether during this busy life he nurtured any gentler thoughts, it was not easy to discover.


He seldom went near Fieldhead; if he did, his visits were brief.


If he called at the rectory, it was only to hold conferences with the rector in his study.

If he called at the rectory, it was only to confer with the rector in his study.


He maintained his rigid course very steadily.


Meantime the history of the year continued troubled. There was no lull in the tempest of war; her long hurricane still swept the Continent.

Meanwhile there was no lull in the tempest of war; her long hurricane still swept the Continent.


There was not the faintest sign of serene weather, no opening amid "the clouds of battle-dust and smoke," no fall of pure dews genial to the olive, no cessation of the red rain which nourishes the baleful and glorious laurel.


Meantime, Ruin had her sappers and miners at work under Moore's feet, and whether he rode or walked, whether he only crossed his counting-house hearth or galloped over sullen Rushedge, he was aware of a hollow echo, and felt the ground shake to his tread.

Ruin was mining under Moore's feet, and whether he rode or walked, he was aware of a hollow echo, and felt the ground shake to his tread.


While the summer thus passed with Moore, how did it lapse with Shirley and Caroline?


Like a love-lorn maiden, pale and pining for a neglectful swain?

Like a love-lorn maiden, pale and pining?


Does she sit the day long bent over some sedentary task?


Has she for ever a book in her hand, or sewing on her knee, and eyes only for that, and words for nothing, and thoughts unspoken?


If her wistful cast of physiognomy is not gone, no more is her careless smile.

If her wistful look is not gone, neither is her careless smile.


She keeps her dark old manor-house light and bright with her cheery presence.

She keeps her dark old manor-house bright with her cheery presence.


The gallery and the low-ceiled chambers that open into it have learned lively echoes from her voice; the dim entrance-hall, with its one window, has grown pleasantly accustomed to the frequent rustle of a silk dress, as its wearer sweeps across from room to room, now carrying flowers to the barbarous peach-bloom salon, now entering the dining-room to open its casements and let in the scent of mignonette and sweet-briar, anon bringing plants from the staircase window to place in the sun at the open porch door.

The gallery has learned lively echoes from her voice; the dim entrance-hall has grown pleasantly accustomed to the frequent rustle of a silk dress, as its wearer sweeps from room to room, carrying flowers and opening windows.


She takes her sewing occasionally; but, by some fatality, she is doomed never to sit steadily at it for above five minutes at a time.

She takes up her sewing occasionally; but never sits steadily at it for above five minutes at a time.


Her thimble is scarcely fitted on, her needle scarce threaded, when a sudden thought calls her upstairs.

Her needle is scarce threaded when a sudden thought calls her upstairs.


Perhaps she goes to seek some just-then-remembered old ivory-backed needle-book or older china-topped work-box, quite unneeded, but which seems at the moment indispensable; perhaps to arrange her hair, or a drawer which she recollects to have seen that morning in a state of curious confusion; perhaps only to take a peep from a particular window at a particular view, whence Briarfield church and rectory are visible, pleasantly bowered in trees.

Perhaps she goes to seek some old ivory-backed needle-book; perhaps to arrange her hair, or tidy a drawer; perhaps only to take a peep from a window at the view of Briarfield church and rectory.


She has scarcely returned, and again taken up the slip of cambric or square of half-wrought canvas, when Tartar's bold scrape and strangled whistle are heard at the porch door, and she must run to open it for him.

She has scarcely returned, and again taken up her sewing, when Tartar's scrape and strangled wheeze are heard at the porch door, and she runs to open it for him.


It is a hot day; he comes in panting; she must convoy him to the kitchen, and see with her own eyes that his water-bowl is replenished.

It is a hot day; he comes in panting; she must take him to the kitchen for water.


Through the open kitchen door the court is visible, all sunny and gay, and peopled with turkeys and their poults, peahens and their chicks, pearl-flecked Guinea-fowls, and a bright variety of pure white, and purple-necked, and blue and cinnamon plumed pigeons.

Through the open kitchen door the court is visible, sunny and gay, with turkeys, peahens and their chicks, pearl-flecked Guinea-fowls, and blue and cinnamon plumed pigeons.


Irresistible spectacle to Shirley! She runs to the pantry for a roll, and she stands on the door step scattering crumbs.

Irresistible spectacle! Shirley runs to the pantry for a roll, and stands on the doorstep scattering crumbs.


Around her throng her eager, plump, happy feathered vassals.


John is about the stables, and John must be talked to, and her mare looked at.

John is in the stables, and he must be talked to, and her mare looked at.


She is still petting and patting it when the cows come in to be milked. This is important; Shirley must stay and take a review of them all.

Then the cows come in to be milked; Shirley must stay and take a review of them all.


There are perhaps some little calves, some little new-yeaned lambs--it may be twins, whose mothers have rejected them.

There are perhaps some little calves, some little new lambs - maybe twins, whose mothers have rejected them.


Miss Keeldar must be introduced to them by John, must permit herself the treat of feeding them with her own hand, under the direction of her careful foreman.

Miss Keeldar must feed them with her own hand.


Meantime John moots doubtful questions about the farming of certain "crofts," and "ings," and "holmes," and his mistress is necessitated to fetch her garden-hat--a gipsy straw--and accompany him, over stile and along hedgerow, to hear the conclusion of the whole agricultural matter on the spot, and with the said "crofts," "ings," and "holms" under her eye.

Meantime John asks about the farming of certain "crofts" and "ings", and his mistress has to fetch her straw garden-hat and accompany him over stile and along hedgerow, to decide the matter on the spot, with the said "crofts" and "ings" under her eye.


Bright afternoon thus wears into soft evening, and she comes home to a late tea, and after tea she never sews.


After tea Shirley reads, and she is just about as tenacious of her book as she is lax of her needle.

After tea Shirley reads. She is as tenacious of her book as she is lax of her needle.


Her study is the rug, her seat a footstool, or perhaps only the carpet at Mrs. Pryor's feet: there she always learned her lessons when a child, and old habits have a strong power over her.

Her seat is a footstool, or perhaps the carpet at Mrs. Pryor's feet.


The tawny and lionlike bulk of Tartar is ever stretched beside her, his negro muzzle laid on his fore paws--straight, strong, and shapely as the limbs of an Alpine wolf.

The tawny bulk of Tartar is stretched beside her.


One hand of the mistress generally reposes on the loving serf's rude head, because if she takes it away he groans and is discontented.

One hand of his mistress reposes on his head, and if she takes it away he groans.


She lifts not her eyes; she neither stirs nor speaks--unless, indeed, it be to return a brief respectful answer to Mrs. Pryor, who addresses deprecatory phrases to her now and then.

She neither stirs nor speaks - unless to return a brief respectful answer to Mrs. Pryor, who addresses her now and then.


"My dear, you had better not have that great dog so near you; he is crushing the border of your dress."

"My dear, that great dog is crushing the border of your dress."


"My dear, I wish you could acquire the habit of sitting to a table when you read."

"My dear, I wish you could acquire the habit of sitting at a table when you read."


"I will try, ma'am, some time; but it is so comfortable to do as one has always been accustomed to do."

"I will try, ma'am, some time; but it is so comfortable here."


"My dear, let me beg of you to put that book down. You are trying your eyes by the doubtful firelight."

"My dear, you are tiring your eyes by the firelight."


"No, ma'am, not at all; my eyes are never tired."

"Not at all, ma'am; my eyes are never tired."


At last, however, a pale light falls on the page from the window. She looks; the moon is up. She closes the volume, rises, and walks through the room.

At last, however, she closes the volume, rises, and walks through the room.


Her book has perhaps been a good one; it has refreshed, refilled, rewarmed her heart; it has set her brain astir, furnished her mind with pictures.

Her book has refilled and rewarmed her heart; it has set her brain astir.


The still parlour, the clean hearth, the window opening on the twilight sky, and showing its "sweet regent," new throned and glorious, suffice to make earth an Eden, life a poem, for Shirley.

The still parlour, the clean hearth, the window opening on the twilight sky, suffice to make earth an Eden, life a poem, for Shirley.


A still, deep, inborn delight glows in her young veins, unmingled, untroubled, not to be reached or ravished by human agency, because by no human agency bestowed--the pure gift of God to His creature, the free dower of Nature to her child.

A deep, inborn delight glows in her young veins - the pure gift of God to His creature, the free dower of Nature to her child.


This joy gives her experience of a genii-life.


Buoyant, by green steps, by glad hills, all verdure and light, she reaches a station scarcely lower than that whence angels looked down on the dreamer of Bethel, and her eye seeks, and her soul possesses, the vision of life as she wishes it.

Her eye seeks, and her soul possesses, the vision of life as she wishes it.


No, not as she wishes it; she has not time to wish.


The swift glory spreads out, sweeping and kindling, and multiplies its splendours faster than Thought can effect his combinations, faster than Aspiration can utter her longings.

The swift glory spreads, sweeping and kindling, and multiplies its splendours.


Shirley says nothing while the trance is upon her--she is quite mute; but if Mrs. Pryor speaks to her now, she goes out quietly, and continues her walk upstairs in the dim gallery.

Shirley says nothing while the trance is upon her; but if Mrs. Pryor speaks to her now, she goes out quietly, and continues her walk upstairs in the dim gallery.


If Shirley were not an indolent, a reckless, an ignorant being, she would take a pen at such moments, or at least while the recollection of such moments was yet fresh on her spirit.

If Shirley were not an indolent, reckless, ignorant being, she would take a pen at such moments.


She would seize, she would fix the apparition, tell the vision revealed.

She would seize and fix the apparition, tell the vision revealed.


Had she a little more of the organ of acquisitiveness in her head, a little more of the love of property in her nature, she would take a good-sized sheet of paper and write plainly out, in her own queer but clear and legible hand, the story that has been narrated, the song that has been sung to her, and thus possess what she was enabled to create.

She would write out, in her queer but legible hand, the story that has been narrated, the song that has been sung to her, and thus possess what she was enabled to create.


But indolent she is, reckless she is, and most ignorant; for she does not know her dreams are rare, her feelings peculiar.

But indolent she is, reckless, and most ignorant; for she does not know her dreams are rare.


She does not know, has never known, and will die without knowing, the full value of that spring whose bright fresh bubbling in her heart keeps it green.

She does not know the full value of that spring whose bright fresh bubbling in her heart keeps it green.


In her good-tempered moments is it not as full of lazy softness as in her brief fits of anger it is fulgent with quick-flashing fire?


So long as she is calm, indolence, indulgence, humour, and tenderness possess that large gray sphere; incense her, a red ray pierces the dew, it quickens instantly to flame.

So long as she is calm, a lazy softness, humour, and tenderness fill that grey sphere; anger her, and it quickens with fire.


Ere the month of July was past, Miss Keeldar would probably have started with Caroline on that northern tour they had planned; but just at that epoch an invasion befell Fieldhead.

By the end of July, Miss Keeldar would probably have started with Caroline on that northern tour they had planned; but just then an invasion befell Fieldhead.


A genteel foraging party besieged Shirley in her castle, and compelled her to surrender at discretion.

A genteel foraging party besieged Shirley in her castle, and compelled her to surrender.


An uncle, an aunt, and two cousins from the south--a Mr., Mrs., and two Misses Sympson, of Sympson Grove, ----shire--came down upon her in state.

An uncle, an aunt, and two cousins from the south - a Mr., Mrs., and two Misses Sympson, of Sympson Grove - arrived in state.


The laws of hospitality obliged her to give in, which she did with a facility which somewhat surprised Caroline, who knew her to be prompt in action and fertile in expedient where a victory was to be gained for her will.

The laws of hospitality obliged her to give in, which she did with a willingness which surprised Caroline.


Miss Helstone even asked her how it was she submitted so readily.

Miss Helstone asked her how it was she submitted so readily.


She answered, old feelings had their power; she had passed two years of her early youth at Sympson Grove.

Shirley answered that old feelings had their power; she had passed two years of her youth at Sympson Grove.


She had nothing in common with them, she replied. Little Harry Sympson, indeed, the sole son of the family, was very unlike his sisters, and of him she had formerly been fond; but he was not coming to Yorkshire--at least not yet.

She had nothing in common with them, she replied, except little Harry Sympson, the sole son, who was very unlike his sisters. She had been fond of him; but he was not coming to Yorkshire yet.


The next Sunday the Fieldhead pew in Briarfield Church appeared peopled with a prim, trim, fidgety, elderly gentleman, who shifted his spectacles, and changed his position every three minutes; a patient, placid-looking elderly lady in brown satin; and two pattern young ladies, in pattern attire, with pattern deportment.

The next Sunday the Fieldhead pew in Briarfield Church held a prim, trim, fidgety, elderly gentleman; a patient, placid-looking elderly lady in brown satin; and two model young ladies, in model attire, with model deportment.


Shirley had the air of a black swan or a white crow in the midst of this party, and very forlorn was her aspect.

Shirley had the air of a black swan in the midst of this party, and looked very forlorn.


Having brought her into respectable society, we will leave her there a while, and look after Miss Helstone.

Having brought her into respectable society, we will leave her there a while, and look for Miss Helstone.


Separated from Miss Keeldar for the present, as she could not seek her in the midst of her fine relatives, scared away from Fieldhead by the visiting commotion which the new arrivals occasioned in the neighbourhood, Caroline was limited once more to the gray rectory, the solitary morning walk in remote by-paths, the long, lonely afternoon sitting in a quiet parlour which the sun forsook at noon, or in the garden alcove where it shone bright, yet sad, on the ripening red currants trained over the trellis, and on the fair monthly roses entwined between, and through them fell chequered on Caroline sitting in her white summer dress, still as a garden statue.

Separated from Miss Keeldar by the presence of her fine relatives, Caroline was limited once more to the grey rectory, the solitary morning walk on remote paths, the long, lonely afternoon sitting in a quiet parlour, or in the garden alcove. There the sun shone on ripening red currants trained over the trellis, and on the fair roses entwined between, and fell chequered on Caroline, still as a garden statue.


There she read old books, taken from her uncle's library. The Greek and Latin were of no use to her, and its collection of light literature was chiefly contained on a shelf which had belonged to her aunt Mary--some venerable Lady's Magazines, that had once performed a sea-voyage with their owner, and undergone a storm, and whose pages were stained with salt water; some mad Methodist Magazines, full of miracles and apparitions, of preternatural warnings, ominous dreams, and frenzied fanaticism; the equally mad letters of Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe from the Dead to the Living; a few old English classics.

She read old books from her uncle's library - some venerable Lady's Magazines, some mad Methodist Magazines, and a few old English classics.


From these faded flowers Caroline had in her childhood extracted the honey; they were tasteless to her now.


By way of change, and also of doing good, she would sew--make garments for the poor, according to good Miss Ainley's direction.

By way of change, she would sew for the poor, according to good Miss Ainley's direction.


Sometimes, as she felt and saw her tears fall slowly on her work, she would wonder how the excellent woman who had cut it out and arranged it for her managed to be so equably serene in _her_ solitude.

Sometimes, as she saw her tears fall on her work, she would wonder how that excellent woman managed to be so serene in her solitude.


"I never find Miss Ainley oppressed with despondency or lost in grief," she thought; "yet her cottage is a still, dim little place, and she is without a bright hope or near friend in the world.

"I never find Miss Ainley oppressed or lost in grief," she thought; "yet her cottage is a dim little place, and she is without a close friend in the world.


I remember, though, she told me once she had tutored her thoughts to tend upwards to heaven. She allowed there was, and ever had been, little enjoyment in this world for her, and she looks, I suppose, to the bliss of the world to come.

I remember she told me once she had tutored her thoughts to tend upwards to heaven, for there had been little enjoyment in this world for her, and she looks, I suppose, to the bliss of the world to come.


So do nuns, with their close cell, their iron lamp, their robe strait as a shroud, their bed narrow as a coffin.

So do nuns, with their close cell, their iron lamp, and their bed as narrow as a coffin.


She says often she has no fear of death--no dread of the grave; no more, doubtless, had St. Simeon Stylites, lifted up terrible on his wild column in the wilderness; no more has the Hindu votary stretched on his couch of iron spikes.

She says often she has no fear of death.


Both these having violated nature, their natural likings and antipathies are reversed; they grow altogether morbid.


I do fear death as yet, but I believe it is because I am young.


Poor Miss Ainley would cling closer to life if life had more charms for her.


God surely did not create us and cause us to live with the sole end of wishing always to die.

God surely did not give us life with the sole end of wishing always to die.


I believe in my heart we were intended to prize life and enjoy it so long as we retain it. Existence never was originally meant to be that useless, blank, pale, slow-trailing thing it often becomes to many, and is becoming to me among the rest.

I believe we were intended to prize and enjoy life: it was never meant to be that useless, blank, slow-trailing thing it becomes to many, and is becoming to me too.


"Nobody," she went on--"nobody in particular is to blame, that I can see, for the state in which things are; and I cannot tell, however much I puzzle over it, how they are to be altered for the better; but I feel there is something wrong somewhere.

"Nobody," she went on, "is to blame for this state of things; and I cannot tell how they are to be altered for the better; but I feel there is something wrong somewhere.


I believe single women should have more to do--better chances of interesting and profitable occupation than they possess now.

I believe single women should have more to do - more interesting and profitable occupations than they have now.


And when I speak thus I have no impression that I displease God by my words; that I am either impious or impatient, irreligious or sacrilegious.

I do not think these words displease God, or that they are irreligious.


My consolation is, indeed, that God hears many a groan, and compassionates much grief which man stops his ears against, or frowns on with impotent contempt.

Indeed, God hears many a groan which man stops his ears against, or frowns on with impotent contempt.


I say _impotent_, for I observe that to such grievances as society cannot readily cure it usually forbids utterance, on pain of its scorn, this scorn being only a sort of tinselled cloak to its deformed weakness. People hate to be reminded of ills they are unable or unwilling to remedy.

I say impotent, for people hate to be reminded of ills they cannot remedy.


Such reminder, in forcing on them a sense of their own incapacity, or a more painful sense of an obligation to make some unpleasant effort, troubles their ease and shakes their self-complacency.

It forces on them an awareness of their own incapacity, or a painful sense of an obligation to make some unpleasant effort.


Old maids, like the houseless and unemployed poor, should not ask for a place and an occupation in the world; the demand disturbs the happy and rich--it disturbs parents.

Old maids should not ask for a place and an occupation in the world; the demand disturbs the happy and rich.


Look at the numerous families of girls in this neighbourhood--the Armitages, the Birtwhistles, the Sykeses.

"Look at the numerous families of girls in this neighbourhood - the Armitages, the Birtwhistles, the Sykeses.


The brothers of these girls are every one in business or in professions; they have something to do.

Their brothers are in business or in professions; they have something to do.


Their sisters have no earthly employment but household work and sewing, no earthly pleasure but an unprofitable visiting, and no hope, in all their life to come, of anything better.

Their sisters have no earthly employment but household work and sewing, no earthly pleasure but visiting, and no hope, in all their life to come, of anything better.


This stagnant state of things makes them decline in health.


They are never well, and their minds and views shrink to wondrous narrowness.


The great wish, the sole aim of every one of them is to be married, but the majority will never marry; they will die as they now live.


They scheme, they plot, they dress to ensnare husbands.


The gentlemen turn them into ridicule; they don't want them; they hold them very cheap.

The gentlemen ridicule them; they don't want them; they hold them very cheap.


They say--I have heard them say it with sneering laughs many a time--the matrimonial market is overstocked.

I have heard them say with sneering laughs that the marriage market is overstocked.


Fathers say so likewise, and are angry with their daughters when they observe their manuvres--they order them to stay at home.

Fathers say so likewise, and order their daughters to stay at home.


If you ask, they would answer, sew and cook. They expect them to do this, and this only, contentedly, regularly, uncomplainingly, all their lives long, as if they had no germs of faculties for anything else--a doctrine as reasonable to hold as it would be that the fathers have no faculties but for eating what their daughters cook or for wearing what they sew.

They would answer, sew and cook, and this only, contentedly, uncomplainingly, all their lives long, as if they had no faculties for anything else.


And when there came no relief to their weariness, but only reproaches at its slightest manifestation, would not their weariness ferment in time to frenzy?

And when there came no relief to their weariness, but only reproaches, would not their weariness ferment in time to frenzy?


Lucretia, spinning at midnight in the midst of her maidens, and Solomon's virtuous woman are often quoted as patterns of what 'the sex,' as they say, ought to be.

"Solomon's virtuous woman in the Bible is often quoted as a pattern of what woman ought to be.


Lucretia, I dare say, was a most worthy sort of person, much like my cousin Hortense Moore; but she kept her servants up very late.


I should not have liked to be amongst the number of the maidens.


Hortense would just work me and Sarah in that fashion, if she could, and neither of us would bear it.


The 'virtuous woman,' again, had her household up in the very middle of the night; she 'got breakfast over,' as Mrs. Sykes says, before one o'clock a.m.; but _she_ had something more to do than spin and give out portions.

But she had something more to do than spin.


She was a manufacturer--she made fine linen and sold it; she was an agriculturist--she bought estates and planted vineyards.

She was a manufacturer - she made fine linen and sold it; she was an agriculturist - she bought estates and planted vineyards.


_That_ woman was a manager. She was what the matrons hereabouts call 'a clever woman.' On the whole, I like her a good deal better than Lucretia; but I don't believe either Mr. Armitage or Mr. Sykes could have got the advantage of her in a bargain.

That woman was a manager, and I don't believe either Mr. Armitage or Mr. Sykes could have got the advantage of her in a bargain.


'Strength and honour were her clothing; the heart of her husband safely trusted in her.


She opened her mouth with wisdom; in her tongue was the law of kindness; her children rose up and called her blessed; her husband also praised her.'


your model of a woman is a worthy model!


But are we, in these days, brought up to be like her?


do your daughters reach this royal standard? Can they reach it?

can your daughters reach this royal standard?


Can you give them a field in which their faculties may be exercised and grow?


look at your poor girls, many of them fading around you, dropping off in consumption or decline; or, what is worse, degenerating to sour old maids--envious, back-biting, wretched, because life is a desert to them; or, what is worst of all, reduced to strive, by scarce modest coquetry and debasing artifice, to gain that position and consideration by marriage which to celibacy is denied.

look at your poor girls, many of them fading around you, because life is a desert to them; or reduced to strive, by coquetry and artifice, to gain a position by marriage.


Perhaps not all at once; but consider the matter well when it is brought before you, receive it as a theme worthy of thought; do not dismiss it with an idle jest or an unmanly insult.

Consider the matter well; do not dismiss it with an idle jest or an unmanly insult.


You would wish to be proud of your daughters, and not to blush for them; then seek for them an interest and an occupation which shall raise them above the flirt, the manuvrer, the mischief-making tale-bearer.

You would wish to be proud of your daughters, and not to blush for them; then seek for them an interest and an occupation which shall raise them above the flirt, the mischief-making tale-bearer.


Keep your girls' minds narrow and fettered; they will still be a plague and a care, sometimes a disgrace to you.

Keep your girls' minds narrow and fettered, and they will be a plague and a care to you.


Cultivate them--give them scope and work; they will be your gayest companions in health, your tenderest nurses in sickness, your most faithful prop in age."

Cultivate them - give them scope and work; they will be your gayest companions in health, your tenderest nurses in sickness, your most faithful prop in age."


Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail.


Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible. "Spare my beloved," it may implore.

Night after night the supplicant may cry in agonised, soundless voice: "Spare my beloved.


Rend not from me what long affection entwines with my whole nature.


And after this cry and strife the sun may rise and see him worsted.


That opening morn, which used to salute him with the whisper of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks, may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and heat have quitted, "Oh! I have had a suffering night. This morning I am worse.

At morn the dear, pale lips may murmur of a night of yet worse suffering.


Dreams I am unused to have troubled me."


Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his idol shall be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to the sentence he cannot avert and scarce can bear.

Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels that the unbearable moment draws nigh, that it is God's will his idol shall be broken. He bends his head, and subdues his soul to the sentence he cannot avert and scarce can bear.


She was still praying, unconscious that the summer sun hung above the hills, when her child softly woke in her arms.

She was still praying when her child softly woke in her arms.


No piteous, unconscious moaning--sound which so wastes our strength that, even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears sweeps away the oath--preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy followed.

There was no piteous moaning, no deaf apathy.


The first words spoken were not those of one becoming estranged from this world, and already permitted to stray at times into realms foreign to the living. Caroline evidently remembered with clearness what had happened.

Caroline's first words showed no fever or delirium.


Mrs. Pryor rose with a start, that her daughter might not see the joyful tears called into her eyes by that affectionate word "mamma," and the welcome assurance that followed it.

Mrs. Pryor rose with a start, joyful tears called into her eyes by that affectionate word "mamma."


For many days the mother dared rejoice only with trembling.


That first revival seemed like the flicker of a dying lamp.


If the flame streamed up bright one moment, the next it sank dim in the socket.

If the flame streamed up bright one moment, the next it sank dim.


Exhaustion followed close on excitement.


There was always a touching endeavour to _appear_ better, but too often ability refused to second will; too often the attempt to bear up failed.

Caroline made a touching endeavour to appear better, but too often failed.


The effort to eat, to talk, to look cheerful, was unsuccessful.


Many an hour passed during which Mrs. Pryor feared that the chords of life could never more be strengthened, though the time of their breaking might be deferred.

Many an hour passed when Mrs. Pryor feared that she would never grow stronger.


During this space the mother and daughter seemed left almost alone in the neighbourhood.

During this time the mother and daughter seemed left almost alone in the neighbourhood.


It was the close of August; the weather was fine--that is to say, it was very dry and very dusty, for an arid wind had been blowing from the east this month past; very cloudless, too, though a pale haze, stationary in the atmosphere, seemed to rob of all depth of tone the blue of heaven, of all freshness the verdure of earth, and of all glow the light of day.

It was the close of August; the weather was very dry and dusty, very cloudless, too, though a pale haze seemed to rob the heaven of blue, and the earth of freshness.


Almost every family in Briarfield was absent on an excursion.

Almost every family in Briarfield was away.


Miss Keeldar and her friends were at the seaside; so were Mrs. Yorke's household.

Miss Keeldar and her friends were at the seaside; so were the Yorkes.


Mr. Hall and Louis Moore, between whom a spontaneous intimacy seemed to have arisen--the result, probably, of harmony of views and temperament--were gone "up north" on a pedestrian excursion to the Lakes.

Mr. Hall and Louis Moore, between whom a friendship had arisen, had gone to walk in the Lakes.


Even Hortense, who would fain have stayed at home and aided Mrs. Pryor in nursing Caroline, had been so earnestly entreated by Miss Mann to accompany her once more to Wormwood Wells, in the hope of alleviating sufferings greatly aggravated by the insalubrious weather, that she felt obliged to comply; indeed, it was not in her nature to refuse a request that at once appealed to her goodness of heart, and, by a confession of dependency, flattered her _amour propre_.

Even Hortense, who would fain have stayed at home, had been so earnestly entreated by Miss Mann to accompany her again to Wormwood Wells that she felt obliged to comply.


As for Robert, from Birmingham he had gone on to London, where he still sojourned.

As for Robert, from Birmingham he had gone to London, where he still stayed.


So long as the breath of Asiatic deserts parched Caroline's lips and fevered her veins, her physical convalescence could not keep pace with her returning mental tranquillity; but there came a day when the wind ceased to sob at the eastern gable of the rectory, and at the oriel window of the church.

However, there came a day when the dry east wind dropped.


A little cloud like a man's hand arose in the west; gusts from the same quarter drove it on and spread it wide; wet and tempest prevailed a while.

A cloud arose in the west, and spread wide: rain and tempest followed.


When that was over the sun broke out genially, heaven regained its azure, and earth its green; the livid cholera-tint had vanished from the face of nature; the hills rose clear round the horizon, absolved from that pale malaria-haze.

When that was over the sun broke out, heaven regained its azure, and earth its green; the hills rose clear, freed from that pale sickly haze.


Caroline's youth could now be of some avail to her, and so could her mother's nurture. Both, crowned by God's blessing, sent in the pure west wind blowing soft as fresh through the ever-open chamber lattice, rekindled her long-languishing energies.

Her mother's care and the pure, fresh wind, blowing soft through the window, rekindled Caroline's energies.


At last Mrs. Pryor saw that it was permitted to hope: a genuine, material convalescence had commenced.


It was not merely Caroline's smile which was brighter, or her spirits which were cheered, but a certain look had passed from her face and eye--a look dread and indescribable, but which will easily be recalled by those who have watched the couch of dangerous disease.

It was not merely Caroline's smile which was brighter, but a certain look had passed from her face - a dread, glassy look, familiar to those who have watched by sickbeds.


Long before the emaciated outlines of her aspect began to fill, or its departed colour to return, a more subtle change took place; all grew softer and warmer.


Instead of a marble mask and glassy eye, Mrs. Pryor saw laid on the pillow a face pale and wasted enough, perhaps more haggard than the other appearance, but less awful; for it was a sick, living girl, not a mere white mould or rigid piece of statuary.

Mrs. Pryor saw laid on the pillow a face pale and wasted, but not white and rigid.


Now, too, she was not always petitioning to drink. The words, "I am _so_ thirsty," ceased to be her plaint. Sometimes, when she had swallowed a morsel, she would say it had revived her. All descriptions of food were no longer equally distasteful; she could be induced, sometimes, to indicate a preference.

Now, too, Caroline was not always saying she was thirsty; food was not so distasteful to her.


With what trembling pleasure and anxious care did not her nurse prepare what was selected!

With what anxious care her nurse prepared what she preferred!


How she watched her as she partook of it!


Then she longed to breathe the fresh air, to revisit her flowers, to see how the fruit had ripened.


Her uncle, always liberal, had bought a garden-chair for her express use.

Her uncle had bought a garden-chair for her use.


He carried her down in his own arms, and placed her in it himself, and William Farren was there to wheel her round the walks, to show her what he had done amongst her plants, to take her directions for further work.

He carried her down in his arms, and placed her in it, and William Farren wheeled her round the walks, to show her what he had done amongst her plants.


William and she found plenty to talk about.


They had a dozen topics in common--interesting to them, unimportant to the rest of the world. They took a similar interest in animals, birds, insects, and plants; they held similar doctrines about humanity to the lower creation, and had a similar turn for minute observation on points of natural history.

They had a common interest in animals, birds and plants; they held similar views about humane treatment of the lower creation, and had a similar turn for observing natural history.


The nest and proceedings of some ground-bees, which had burrowed in the turf under an old cherry-tree, was one subject of interest; the haunts of certain hedge-sparrows, and the welfare of certain pearly eggs and callow fledglings, another.

The nest of some ground-bees, which had burrowed in the turf under a cherry-tree, was one subject of interest; the haunts of hedge-sparrows, and the welfare of certain fledglings, was another.


Had _Chambers's Journal_ existed in those days, it would certainly have formed Miss Helstone's and Farren's favourite periodical.


She would have subscribed for it, and to him each number would duly have been lent; both would have put implicit faith and found great savour in its marvellous anecdotes of animal sagacity.


This is a digression, but it suffices to explain why Caroline would have no other hand than William's to guide her chair, and why his society and conversation sufficed to give interest to her garden-airings.


Mrs. Pryor, walking near, wondered how her daughter could be so much at ease with a "man of the people."

Mrs. Pryor wondered how her daughter could be so at ease with a workman.


_She_ found it impossible to speak to him otherwise than stiffly.

She found it impossible to speak to him otherwise than stiffly.


She felt as if a great gulf lay between her caste and his, and that to cross it or meet him half-way would be to degrade herself.


She gently asked Caroline, "Are you not afraid, my dear, to converse with that person so unreservedly?


He may presume, and become troublesomely garrulous."


"William presume, mamma? You don't know him.


He is altogether too proud and sensitive to do so.


And Mrs. Pryor smiled sceptically at the nave notion of that rough-handed, rough-headed, fustian-clad clown having "fine feelings."

Mrs. Pryor smiled sceptically at the nave notion of that rough-handed clown having "fine feelings."


Farren, for his part, showed Mrs. Pryor only a very sulky brow.

Farren, for his part, was sulky towards Mrs. Pryor.


He knew when he was misjudged, and was apt to turn unmanageable with such as failed to give him his due.


The evening restored Caroline entirely to her mother, and Mrs. Pryor liked the evening; for then, alone with her daughter, no human shadow came between her and what she loved.

Mrs. Pryor liked the evening; for then she was alone with her daughter.


During the day she would have her stiff demeanour and cool moments, as was her wont.

During the day she would have her cool moments, as was her wont.


Between her and Mr. Helstone a very respectful but most rigidly ceremonious intercourse was kept up.

Relations between her and Mr. Helstone were very respectful but rigidly ceremonious.


Anything like familiarity would have bred contempt at once in one or both these personages; but by dint of strict civility and well-maintained distance they got on very smoothly.

By dint of strict civility and well-maintained distance they got on smoothly.


Towards the servants Mrs. Pryor's bearing was not uncourteous, but shy, freezing, ungenial. Perhaps it was diffidence rather than pride which made her appear so haughty; but, as was to be expected, Fanny and Eliza failed to make the distinction, and she was unpopular with them accordingly.

Towards the servants Mrs. Pryor was shy; but her diffidence made her appear haughty to Fanny and Eliza, and she was unpopular with them.


She felt the effect produced; it rendered her at times dissatisfied with herself for faults she could not help, and with all else dejected, chill, and taciturn.

She knew it, and felt dissatisfied with herself.


This mood changed to Caroline's influence, and to that influence alone.

This dejected mood changed under Caroline's influence.


The dependent fondness of her nursling, the natural affection of her child, came over her suavely. Her frost fell away, her rigidity unbent; she grew smiling and pliant.

The affection of her child thawed her frost; she grew smiling and pliant.


Not that Caroline made any wordy profession of love--that would ill have suited Mrs. Pryor; she would have read therein the proof of insincerity--but she hung on her with easy dependence; she confided in her with fearless reliance. These things contented the mother's heart.

Caroline hung on her with easy dependence; she confided in her, and contented the mother's heart.


She liked to hear her daughter say, "Mamma, do this;" "Please, mamma, fetch me that;" "Mamma, read to me;" "Sing a little, mamma."


Nobody else--not one living thing--had ever so claimed her services, so looked for help at her hand.

Nobody else had ever so looked for help at her hand.


Other people were always more or less reserved and stiff with her, as she was reserved and stiff with them; other people betrayed consciousness of and annoyance at her weak points.

Other people were always reserved with her, as she was reserved and stiff with them.


Caroline no more showed such wounding sagacity or reproachful sensitiveness now than she had done when a suckling of three months old.

Caroline showed no such reproachful sensitivity.


Blind to the constitutional defects that were incurable, she had her eyes wide open to the acquired habits that were susceptible of remedy.

She had her eyes wide open to habits that could be remedied.


On certain points she would quite artlessly lecture her parent; and that parent, instead of being hurt, felt a sensation of pleasure in discovering that the girl _dared_ lecture her, that she was so much at home with her.

On certain points she would artlessly lecture her parent; and that parent, instead of being hurt, felt pleasure in discovering that the girl was so much at home with her.


"Mamma, I am determined you shall not wear that old gown any more.


Its fashion is not becoming; it is too strait in the skirt.


You shall put on your black silk every afternoon.


And you shall have a black satin dress for Sundays--a real satin, not a satinet or any of the shams.

And you shall have a black satin dress for Sundays.


And, mamma, when you get the new one, mind you must wear it."


"My dear, I thought of the black silk serving me as a best dress for many years yet, and I wished to buy you several things."


My uncle gives me cash to get what I want.


You know he is generous enough; and I have set my heart on seeing you in a black satin.

You know he is generous; and I have set my heart on seeing you in black satin.


Get it soon, and let it be made by a dressmaker of my recommending.


You always want to disguise yourself like a grandmother.


You would persuade one that you are old and ugly.


On the contrary, when well dressed and cheerful you are very comely indeed; your smile is so pleasant, your teeth are so white, your hair is still such a pretty light colour.

On the contrary, when well dressed and cheerful you are very comely indeed.


And then you speak like a young lady, with such a clear, fine tone, and you sing better than any young lady I ever heard.


Why do you wear such dresses and bonnets, mamma, such as nobody else ever wears?"


People say you are miserly; and yet you are not, for you give liberally to the poor and to religious societies--though your gifts are conveyed so secretly and quietly that they are known to few except the receivers.

People say you are miserly; and you are not, for you give liberally to the poor, though in secret.


When I get a little stronger I will set to work, and you must be good, mamma, and do as I bid you."


And Caroline, sitting near her mother, rearranged her muslin handkerchief and resmoothed her hair.


"My own mamma," then she went on, as if pleasing herself with the thought of their relationship, "who belongs to me, and to whom I belong!

My own mamma," she went on, "who belongs to me, and to whom I belong!


I have something I can love well, and not be afraid of loving.

I have something I can love, and not be afraid of loving.


Mrs. Pryor, who usually shrank from meddling fingers and near approach, allowed the license complacently.


"My sister gave it me--my only sister, Cary.


Would that your Aunt Caroline had lived to see her niece!"


"Have you nothing of papa's--no trinket, no gift of his?"

"Have you nothing of papa's - no gift of his?"


"I have one thing."
"That you prize?"
"That I prize."
"Valuable and pretty?"
"Invaluable and sweet to me."

"I have one thing that I prize, invaluable and sweet to me."


"It is talking to me now, leaning on me.


"Ah, mamma, you mean your teasing daughter, who will never let you alone; who, when you go into your room, cannot help running to seek for you; who follows you upstairs and down, like a dog."

"Ah, mamma, you mean your teasing daughter, who never lets you alone; who follows you upstairs and down, like a dog."


"Whose features still give me such a strange thrill sometimes.


I half fear your fair looks yet, child."


Wickedness spoils and poisons all pleasant things. It kills love.


If you and I thought each other wicked, we could not love each other, could we?"
"And if we could not trust each other, Cary?"
"How miserable we should be!

If you and I thought each other wicked, how miserable we should be!


Mother, before I knew you I had an apprehension that you were not good--that I could not esteem you.

Mother, before I knew you, I had a fear that you were not good.


And now my heart is elate because I find you perfect--almost; kind, clever, nice.

And now I am delighted to find you perfect - almost; kind, clever, nice.


Your sole fault is that you are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you.


I like your southern accent; it is so pure, so soft.

I like your southern accent; it is so pure.


It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one's voice here in the north has.


My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a fine reader, mamma.


Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with such propriety of expression or purity of accent."


"I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but, really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read and preach I could not understand his broad northern tongue."
"Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to speak roughly?"

When you first met me, mamma, did I seem to speak roughly?"


I almost wished you had, as I wished you had looked unpolished.


Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke well, quite otherwise than your worthy uncle--correctly, gently, smoothly. You inherit the gift."

Your father spoke well, and you inherit the gift."


When he was so agreeable, why was he not good?"


"Why he was _as_ he was--and happily of that you, child, can form no conception--I cannot tell.


"Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away. Put down the sewing; I am an enemy to it. It cumbers your lap, and I want it for my head; it engages your eyes, and I want them for a book. Here is your favourite--Cowper."

"Mamma, put down your sewing; here is a book - your favourite - Cowper."


These importunities were the mother's pleasure.

These commands were the mother's pleasure.


If ever she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them repeated, and to enjoy her child's soft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency.

If ever she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them repeated, and to enjoy her child's soft, half-playful urgency.


And then, when she yielded, Caroline would say archly, "You will spoil me, mamma.


I always thought I should like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet."


A Yorkshire gentleman he was, _par excellence_, in every point; about fifty-five years old, but looking at first sight still older, for his hair was silver white.

A Yorkshire gentleman he was in every point; about fifty-five years old, but looking older, for his hair was silver white.


His forehead was broad, not high; his face fresh and hale; the harshness of the north was seen in his features, as it was heard in his voice; every trait was thoroughly English--not a Norman line anywhere; it was an inelegant, unclassic, unaristocratic mould of visage.

His forehead was broad; his face fresh and hale; the harshness of the north was seen in his features, and heard in his voice; every trait was thoroughly English - an inelegant, unaristocratic face.


Fine people would perhaps have called it vulgar; sensible people would have termed it characteristic; shrewd people would have delighted in it for the pith, sagacity, intelligence, the rude yet real originality marked in every lineament, latent in every furrow. But it was an indocile, a scornful, and a sarcastic face--the face of a man difficult to lead, and impossible to drive.

It held pith, intelligence and originality in every furrow; but it was scornful and sarcastic - the face of a man difficult to lead, and impossible to drive.


His stature was rather tall, and he was well made and wiry, and had a stately integrity of port; there was not a suspicion of the clown about him anywhere.


I did not find it easy to sketch Mr. Yorke's person, but it is more difficult to indicate his mind. If you expect to be treated to a Perfection, reader, or even to a benevolent, philanthropic old gentleman in him, you are mistaken.

If you expect Mr. Yorke to be a benevolent, philanthropic old gentleman, reader, you are mistaken.


He has spoken with some sense and with some good feeling to Mr. Moore, but you are not thence to conclude that he always spoke and thought justly and kindly.

He has spoken with some sense and good feeling to Mr. Moore, but you are not therefore to conclude that he always spoke and thought justly and kindly.


Mr. Yorke, in the first place, was without the organ of veneration--a great want, and which throws a man wrong on every point where veneration is required. Secondly, he was without the organ of comparison--a deficiency which strips a man of sympathy; and thirdly, he had too little of the organs of benevolence and ideality, which took the glory and softness from his nature, and for him diminished those divine qualities throughout the universe.

Mr. Yorke lacked the ability to venerate; and he lacked the ability to compare - and hence to feel sympathy. He had too little benevolence and softness in his nature, and he did not value those divine qualities.


The want of veneration made him intolerant to those above him--kings and nobles and priests, dynasties and parliaments and establishments, with all their doings, most of their enactments, their forms, their rights, their claims, were to him an abomination, all rubbish; he found no use or pleasure in them, and believed it would be clear gain, and no damage to the world, if its high places were razed, and their occupants crushed in the fall.

He was intolerant to those above him. Kings and priests, dynasties and parliaments, were to him an abomination. He found no use or pleasure in them.


The want of veneration, too, made him dead at heart to the electric delight of admiring what is admirable; it dried up a thousand pure sources of enjoyment; it withered a thousand vivid pleasures.

His lack of veneration, too, dried up a thousand pure sources of enjoyment.


He was not irreligious, though a member of no sect; but his religion could not be that of one who knows how to venerate. He believed in God and heaven; but his God and heaven were those of a man in whom awe, imagination, and tenderness lack.

He was not irreligious - he believed in God and heaven; but his God and heaven were those of a man without awe, imagination, or tenderness.


The weakness of his powers of comparison made him inconsistent; while he professed some excellent general doctrines of mutual toleration and forbearance, he cherished towards certain classes a bigoted antipathy.

While he claimed to be tolerant, he was bigoted.


He spoke of "parsons" and all who belonged to parsons, of "lords" and the appendages of lords, with a harshness, sometimes an insolence, as unjust as it was insufferable.

He spoke of "parsons" and "lords" with unjust harshness and insolence.


He could not place himself in the position of those he vituperated; he could not compare their errors with their temptations, their defects with their disadvantages; he could not realize the effect of such and such circumstances on himself similarly situated, and he would often express the most ferocious and tyrannical wishes regarding those who had acted, as he thought, ferociously and tyrannically.

He could not place himself in the position of those he reviled; he could not allow for their temptations or disadvantages; he could not imagine how he would behave in a similar situation, and he would often express the most ferocious wishes regarding those who he thought had acted ferociously.


To judge by his threats, he would have employed arbitrary, even cruel, means to advance the cause of freedom and equality.


yes, Mr. Yorke talked about equality, but at heart he was a proud man--very friendly to his workpeople, very good to all who were beneath him, and submitted quietly to be beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub to whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no man) his superior.

Mr. Yorke talked about equality, but at heart he was a proud man - very friendly to his workpeople, good to those beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub to anyone the world judged his superior.


Revolt was in his blood: he could not bear control; his father, his grandfather before him, could not bear it, and his children after him never could.

Revolt was in his blood: he could not bear control; his father and grandfather before him could not bear it, nor his children after him.


The want of general benevolence made him very impatient of imbecility, and of all faults which grated on his strong, shrewd nature; it left no check to his cutting sarcasm.

His lack of benevolence made him very impatient of others' faults; it left no check to his cutting sarcasm.


As he was not merciful, he would sometimes wound and wound again, without noticing how much he hurt, or caring how deep he thrust.

He would sometimes wound and wound again, without noticing how much he hurt, or caring how deep he thrust.


As to the paucity of ideality in his mind, that can scarcely be called a fault: a fine ear for music, a correct eye for colour and form, left him the quality of taste; and who cares for imagination?

He had no imagination; but his fine ear for music, and correct eye for colour and form, left him the quality of taste; and who cares for imagination?


Who does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute, akin to weakness, perhaps partaking of frenzy--a disease rather than a gift of the mind?

Who does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute - a disease of the mind rather than a gift?


Probably all think it so but those who possess, or fancy they possess, it.

Probably all think it so but those who possess imagination, or fancy they possess it.


To hear them speak, you would believe that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow about them, that their eyes would be dim if that flame did not refine their vision, that they would be lonely if this strange companion abandoned them.

To hear them speak, you would believe that their hearts would be cold and their eyes dim without that flame, that they would be lonely if this strange companion abandoned them.


You would suppose that it imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel.

You would suppose that it gave some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel.


An illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it for gold.

An illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream.


As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he considered it a most superfluous quality in others.

As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he considered it superfluous in others.


Painters and musicians he could tolerate, and even encourage, because he could relish the results of their art; he could see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the pleasure of good music; but a quiet poet--whatever force struggled, whatever fire glowed, in his breast--if he could not have played the man in the counting-house, of the tradesman in the Piece Hall, might have lived despised, and died scorned, under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.

Painters and musicians he could tolerate, because he could see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the pleasure of good music; but he would have despised a poet.


And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is well that the true poet, quiet externally though he may be, has often a truculent spirit under his placidity, and is full of shrewdness in his meekness, and can measure the whole stature of those who look down on him, and correctly ascertain the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain him for not having followed.


It is happy that he can have his own bliss, his own society with his great friend and goddess Nature, quite independent of those who find little pleasure in him, and in whom he finds no pleasure at all.


It is just that while the world and circumstances often turn a dark, cold side to him--and properly, too, because he first turns a dark, cold, careless side to them--he should be able to maintain a festal brightness and cherishing glow in his bosom, which makes all bright and genial for him; while strangers, perhaps, deem his existence a Polar winter never gladdened by a sun.


The true poet is not one whit to be pitied, and he is apt to laugh in his sleeve when any misguided sympathizer whines over his wrongs.


Even when utilitarians sit in judgment on him, and pronounce him and his art useless, he hears the sentence with such a hard derision, such a broad, deep, comprehensive, and merciless contempt of the unhappy Pharisees who pronounce it, that he is rather to be chidden than condoled with.


These, however, are not Mr. Yorke's reflections, and it is with Mr. Yorke we have at present to do.


I have told you some of his faults, reader: as to his good points, he was one of the most honourable and capable men in Yorkshire; even those who disliked him were forced to respect him.

I have told you some of his faults, reader: yet he was one of the most honourable and capable men in Yorkshire.


He was much beloved by the poor, because he was thoroughly kind and very fatherly to them.

He was much beloved by the poor, because he was kind and fatherly to them.


To his workmen he was considerate and cordial.


When he dismissed them from an occupation, he would try to set them on to something else, or, if that was impossible, help them to remove with their families to a district where work might possibly be had.

When he dismissed them from an occupation, he would try to find them other work, or help them to move to a district where work might be found.


It must also be remarked that if, as sometimes chanced, any individual amongst his "hands" showed signs of insubordination, Yorke--who, like many who abhor being controlled, knew how to control with vigour--had the secret of crushing rebellion in the germ, of eradicating it like a bad weed, so that it never spread or developed within the sphere of his authority.

It must also be remarked that if any of his workmen showed signs of insubordination, Yorke knew how to crush rebellion at the outset, so that it never spread.


Such being the happy state of his own affairs, he felt himself at liberty to speak with the utmost severity of those who were differently situated, to ascribe whatever was unpleasant in their position entirely to their own fault, to sever himself from the masters, and advocate freely the cause of the operatives.

He spoke severely of those who did not do the same, saying that any difficulties they had were entirely their own fault, and sometimes taking the workmen's side.


Mr. Yorke's family was the first and oldest in the district; and he, though not the wealthiest, was one of the most influential men.

Mr. Yorke's family was the oldest and most respected in the district; and he was one of the most influential men.


In his youth, before the French Revolution, he had travelled on the Continent. He was an adept in the French and Italian languages. During a two years' sojourn in Italy he had collected many good paintings and tasteful rarities, with which his residence was now adorned.

In his youth, he had travelled on the Continent, and spoke French and Italian; he had collected many good paintings and tasteful rarities.


His manners, when he liked, were those of a finished gentleman of the old school; his conversation, when he was disposed to please, was singularly interesting and original; and if he usually expressed himself in the Yorkshire dialect, it was because he chose to do so, preferring his native Doric to a more refined vocabulary, "A Yorkshire burr," he affirmed, "was as much better than a cockney's lisp as a bull's bellow than a raton's squeak."

His manners, when he liked, were those of an old-fashioned gentleman; his conversation, when he wished to please, was singularly interesting; and if he usually expressed himself in the Yorkshire dialect, it was because he chose to do so.


Mr. Yorke knew every one, and was known by every one, for miles round; yet his intimate acquaintances were very few.

Mr. Yorke knew every one for miles round; yet his close friends were very few.


Himself thoroughly original, he had no taste for what was ordinary: a racy, rough character, high or low, ever found acceptance with him; a refined, insipid personage, however exalted in station, was his aversion.

He preferred racy, original characters to refined, insipid ones, no matter how exalted they might be.


He would spend an hour any time in talking freely with a shrewd workman of his own, or with some queer, sagacious old woman amongst his cottagers, when he would have grudged a moment to a commonplace fine gentleman or to the most fashionable and elegant, if frivolous, lady.

He would spend an hour talking with a shrewd workman, or with some wise old woman amongst his cottagers, yet would not spend a moment on a commonplace fine gentleman or fashionable lady.


His preferences on these points he carried to an extreme, forgetting that there may be amiable and even admirable characters amongst those who cannot be original.

He forgot that there may be amiable and admirable characters amongst those who cannot be original.


There was a certain order of mind, plain, ingenuous, neglecting refinement, almost devoid of intellectuality, and quite incapable of appreciating what was intellectual in him, but which, at the same time, never felt disgust at his rudeness, was not easily wounded by his sarcasm, did not closely analyze his sayings, doings, or opinions, with which he was peculiarly at ease, and, consequently, which he peculiarly preferred.


They, while submitting implicitly to his influence, never acknowledged, because they never reflected on, his superiority; they were quite tractable, therefore, without running the smallest danger of being servile; and their unthinking, easy, artless insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient, to Mr. Yorke as that of the chair he sat on, or of the floor he trod.


It will have been observed that he was not quite uncordial with Mr. Moore. He had two or three reasons for entertaining a faint partiality to that gentleman.

He was cordial with Mr. Moore for several reasons.


It may sound odd, but the first of these was that Moore spoke English with a foreign, and French with a perfectly pure, accent; and that his dark, thin face, with its fine though rather wasted lines, had a most anti-British and anti-Yorkshire look. These points seem frivolous, unlikely to influence a character like Yorke's; but the fact is they recalled old, perhaps pleasurable, associations--they brought back his travelling, his youthful days. He had seen, amidst Italian cities and scenes, faces like Moore's; he had heard, in Parisian cafs and theatres, voices like his.

Firstly, Moore spoke French with a pure accent; and his un-British looks had pleasant associations for Mr. Yorke - they brought back his youthful travelling days in Italy and Paris.


He was young then, and when he looked at and listened to the alien, he seemed young again.


Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had dealings with him.

Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had business dealings with him.


That was a more substantial, though by no means a more agreeable tie; for as his firm had been connected with Moore's in business, it had also, in some measure, been implicated in its losses.

That tie was more substantial, though by no means more agreeable; for his firm had also been implicated in Moore's losses.


Thirdly, he had found Robert himself a sharp man of business.


He saw reason to anticipate that he would, in the end, by one means or another, make money; and he respected both his resolution and acuteness--perhaps, also, his hardness.

He respected his resolution and acuteness - perhaps also his hardness.


A fourth circumstance which drew them together was that of Mr. Yorke being one of the guardians of the minor on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated; consequently Moore, in the course of his alterations and improvements, had frequent occasion to consult him.

A fourth circumstance which drew them together was that Mr. Yorke was one of the guardians of the landowner, not yet twenty-one, on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated; so Moore frequently had to consult him.


As to the other guest now present in Mr. Yorke's parlour, Mr. Helstone, between him and his host there existed a double antipathy--the antipathy of nature and that of circumstances.

As to Mr. Helstone - between him and Mr. Yorke there was antipathy.


The free-thinker hated the formalist; the lover of liberty detested the disciplinarian. Besides, it was said that in former years they had been rival suitors of the same lady.

Their natures were opposite, and it was said that they had once been rival suitors of the same lady.


Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, noted for his preference of sprightly and dashing women: a showy shape and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly seemed to attract him.

Mr. Yorke, when young, preferred sprightly and dashing women. A showy air, a lively wit, a ready tongue attracted him.


He never, however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles whose society he sought; and all at once he seriously fell in love with and eagerly wooed a girl who presented a complete contrast to those he had hitherto noticed--a girl with the face of a Madonna; a girl of living marble--stillness personified.

He never, however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles; instead he fell seriously in love with a girl who presented a complete contrast to them - a girl with the face of a Madonna; a girl of living marble - stillness personified.


No matter that, when he spoke to her, she only answered him in monosyllables; no matter that his sighs seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned, that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, paid him no respect and no attention; no matter that she seemed the opposite of everything feminine he had ever in his whole life been known to admire.

No matter that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, and paid him no attention. No matter that she seemed the opposite of every woman he had previously admired.


For him Mary Cave was perfect, because somehow, for some reason--no doubt he had a reason--he loved her.


Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved Mary too--or, at any rate, he fancied her.

Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved Mary too - or at any rate, he fancied her.


Several others admired her, for she was beautiful as a monumental angel; but the clergyman was preferred for his office's sake--that office probably investing him with some of the illusion necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and which Miss Cave did not find in any of the young wool-staplers, her other adorers.


Mr. Helstone neither had, nor professed to have, Mr. Yorke's absorbing passion for her. He had none of the humble reverence which seemed to subdue most of her suitors; he saw her more as she really was than the rest did.

He did not pretend to have Mr. Yorke's absorbing passion for her, nor the humble reverence of her other suitors. He saw her as she really was.


He was, consequently, more master of her and himself.


She accepted him at the first offer, and they were married.


Nature never intended Mr. Helstone to make a very good husband, especially to a quiet wife.


He thought so long as a woman was silent nothing ailed her, and she wanted nothing.

He thought so long as a woman was silent, nothing could be wrong.


If she did not complain of solitude, solitude, however continued, could not be irksome to her.


If she did not talk and put herself forward, express a partiality for this, an aversion to that, she had no partialities or aversions, and it was useless to consult her tastes.

If she did not express likes and dislikes, then she had none.


He made no pretence of comprehending women, or comparing them with men.

He made no pretence of comprehending women.


They were a different, probably a very inferior, order of existence.

They were a different, probably a very inferior, order of existence to men.


A wife could not be her husband's companion, much less his confidante, much less his stay.

A wife could not be her husband's companion, much less his confidante.


_His_ wife, after a year or two, was of no great importance to him in any shape; and when she one day, as he thought, suddenly--for he had scarcely noticed her decline--but, as others thought, gradually, took her leave of him and of life, and there was only a still, beautiful-featured mould of clay left, cold and white, in the conjugal couch, he felt his bereavement--who shall say how little?

His wife, after a year or two, was of no great importance to him; and when she one day, as he thought, suddenly - for he had scarcely noticed her decline - took her leave of him and of life, he felt his bereavement - who shall say how little?


Yet, perhaps, more than he seemed to feel it; for he was not a man from whom grief easily wrung tears.


His dry-eyed and sober mourning scandalized an old housekeeper, and likewise a female attendant, who had waited upon Mrs. Helstone in her sickness, and who, perhaps, had had opportunities of learning more of the deceased lady's nature, of her capacity for feeling and loving, than her husband knew.

His dry-eyed mourning scandalized the old housekeeper and Mrs. Helstone's nurse, who, perhaps, knew more of the deceased lady's capacity for feeling and loving than her husband did.


They gossiped together over the corpse, related anecdotes, with embellishments of her lingering decline, and its real or supposed cause. In short, they worked each other up to some indignation against the austere little man, who sat examining papers in an adjoining room, unconscious of what opprobrium he was the object.

They gossiped together over the corpse, and worked each other up to some indignation against the austere little man who sat in the next room going through papers.


Mrs. Helstone was hardly under the sod when rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood that she had died of a broken heart.

Mrs. Helstone was hardly buried when rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood that she had died of a broken heart.


These magnified quickly into reports of hard usage, and, finally, details of harsh treatment on the part of her husband--reports grossly untrue, but not the less eagerly received on that account.

These magnified quickly into reports of harsh treatment by her husband - reports grossly untrue, but eagerly heard despite that.


Mr. Yorke heard them, partly believed them.

Mr. Yorke heard them, and partly believed them.


Already, of course, he had no friendly feeling to his successful rival.


Though himself a married man now, and united to a woman who seemed a complete contrast to Mary Cave in all respects, he could not forget the great disappointment of his life; and when he heard that what would have been so precious to him had been neglected, perhaps abused, by another, he conceived for that other a rooted and bitter animosity.

Though himself a married man now, united to a woman who seemed a complete contrast to Mary Cave, still he could not forget his great disappointment; and when he heard that Mary had been neglected, perhaps abused, he felt a bitter hatred for Mr. Helstone.


Of the nature and strength of this animosity Mr. Helstone was but half aware.

Mr. Helstone was only half aware of this.


He neither knew how much Yorke had loved Mary Cave, what he had felt on losing her, nor was he conscious of the calumnies concerning his treatment of her, familiar to every ear in the neighbourhood but his own.

He neither knew how much Yorke had loved Mary Cave, nor what was rumoured about his own treatment of her.


He believed political and religious differences alone separated him and Mr. Yorke.


Had he known how the case really stood, he would hardly have been induced by any persuasion to cross his former rival's threshold.

Had he known how the case really stood, he would not have crossed his former rival's threshold.


Mr. Yorke did not resume his lecture of Robert Moore.


The conversation ere long recommenced in a more general form, though still in a somewhat disputative tone. The unquiet state of the country, the various depredations lately committed on mill-property in the district, supplied abundant matter for disagreement, especially as each of the three gentlemen present differed more or less in his views on these subjects.

Instead they began to talk about the unquiet state of the country, and the recent attacks on mills, although each of the three gentlemen had different views on these subjects.


Mr. Helstone thought the masters aggrieved, the workpeople unreasonable; he condemned sweepingly the widespread spirit of disaffection against constituted authorities, the growing indisposition to bear with patience evils he regarded as inevitable. The cures he prescribed were vigorous government interference, strict magisterial vigilance; when necessary, prompt military coercion.

Mr. Helstone thought the workpeople were unreasonable and impatient; he thought the government should interfere, and even use military force.


Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this interference, vigilance, and coercion would feed those who were hungry, give work to those who wanted work, and whom no man would hire.

Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this interference would feed the hungry, and give work to those who needed work.


He scouted the idea of inevitable evils.


He said public patience was a camel, on whose back the last atom that could be borne had already been laid, and that resistance was now a duty; the widespread spirit of disaffection against constituted authorities he regarded as the most promising sign of the times; the masters, he allowed, were truly aggrieved, but their main grievances had been heaped on them by a "corrupt, base, and bloody" government (these were Mr. Yorke's epithets).

He said the public had borne enough, and resistance was now a duty. The mill masters, he believed, had been let down by a "corrupt, base, and bloody" government (these were his words).


Madmen like Pitt, demons like Castlereagh, mischievous idiots like Perceval, were the tyrants, the curses of the country, the destroyers of her trade.


It was their infatuated perseverance in an unjustifiable, a hopeless, a ruinous war, which had brought the nation to its present pass.

It was their perseverance in a hopeless, ruinous war which had brought the nation to its knees.


It was their monstrously oppressive taxation, it was the infamous "Orders in Council"--the originators of which deserved impeachment and the scaffold, if ever public men did--that hung a millstone about England's neck.

It was their monstrously oppressive taxation and the infamous "Orders in Council" that hung a millstone about England's neck.


"What chance was there of reason being heard in a land that was king-ridden, priest-ridden, peer-ridden; where a lunatic was the nominal monarch, an unprincipled debauchee the real ruler; where such an insult to common sense as hereditary legislators was tolerated; where such a humbug as a bench of bishops, such an arrogant abuse as a pampered, persecuting established church was endured and venerated; where a standing army was maintained, and a host of lazy parsons and their pauper families were kept on the fat of the land?"

"What chance was there of reason being heard in a land whose king was a lunatic, and whose regent was a debauchee? Where such humbugs as the peerage and a bench of bishops were venerated; and a host of lazy parsons and their families were kept on the fat of the land?"