Shirley Charlotte Brontë (free ebook reader for pc .txt) 📖

you! I think I hear my father sending out the overlooker and five of the dyers, to look in six directions for the body of his prodigal son in the snow; and my mother repenting her of her many misdeeds towards me, now I am gone.”

“Martin, how is Mr. Moore?”

“That is what you came for, just to say that word.”

“Come, tell me quickly.”

“Hang him! he is no worse; but as ill-used as ever⁠—mewed up, kept in solitary confinement. They mean to make either an idiot or a maniac of him, and take out a commission of lunacy. Horsfall starves him; you saw how thin he was.”

“You were very good the other day, Martin.”

“What day? I am always good⁠—a model.”

“When will you be so good again?”

“I see what you are after; but you’ll not wheedle me⁠—I am no cat’s-paw.”

“But it must be done. It is quite a right thing, and a necessary thing.”

“How you encroach! Remember, I managed the matter of my own free will before.”

“And you will again.”

“I won’t. The business gave me far too much trouble. I like my ease.”

“Mr. Moore wishes to see me, Martin, and I wish to see him.”

“I dare say” (coolly).

“It is too bad of your mother to exclude his friends.”

“Tell her so.”

“His own relations.”

“Come and blow her up.”

“You know that would advance nothing. Well, I shall stick to my point. See him I will. If you won’t help me, I’ll manage without help.”

“Do; there is nothing like self-reliance, self-dependence.”

“I have no time to reason with you now; but I consider you provoking. Good morning.”

Away she went, the umbrella shut, for she could not carry it against the wind.

“She is not vapid; she is not shallow,” said Martin. “I shall like to watch, and mark how she will work her way without help. If the storm were not of snow, but of fire⁠—such as came refreshingly down on the cities of the plain⁠—she would go through it to procure five minutes’ speech of that Moore. Now, I consider I have had a pleasant morning. The disappointments got time on; the fears and fits of anger only made that short discourse pleasanter, when it came at last. She expected to coax me at once. She’ll not manage that in one effort. She shall come again, again, and yet again. It would please me to put her in a passion⁠—to make her cry. I want to discover how far she will go⁠—what she will do and dare⁠—to get her will. It seems strange and new to find one human being thinking so much about another as she thinks about Moore. But it is time to go home; my appetite tells me the hour. Won’t I walk into that goose? and we’ll try whether Matthew or I shall get the largest cut of the apple-pie today.”

XXXV Wherein Matters Make Some Progress, but Not Much

Martin had planned well. He had laid out a dexterously concerted scheme for his private amusement. But older and wiser schemers than he are often doomed to see their finest-spun projects swept to annihilation by the sudden broom of Fate, that fell housewife whose red arm none can control. In the present instance this broom was manufactured out of the tough fibres of Moore’s own stubborn purpose, bound tight with his will. He was now resuming his strength, and making strange head against Mrs. Horsfall. Each morning he amazed that matron with a fresh astonishment. First he discharged her from her valet duties; he would dress himself. Then he refused the coffee she brought him; he would breakfast with the family. Lastly, he forbade her his chamber. On the same day, amidst the outcries of all the women in the place, he put his head out of doors. The morning after, he followed Mr. Yorke to his countinghouse, and requested an envoy to fetch a chaise from the Red House Inn. He was resolved, he said, to return home to the Hollow that very afternoon. Mr. Yorke, instead of opposing, aided and abetted him. The chaise was sent for, though Mrs. Yorke declared the step would be his death. It came. Moore, little disposed to speak, made his purse do duty for his tongue. He expressed his gratitude to the servants and to Mrs. Horsfall by the chink of his coin. The latter personage approved and understood this language perfectly; it made amends for all previous contumacy. She and her patient parted the best friends in the world.

The kitchen visited and soothed, Moore betook himself to the parlour. He had Mrs. Yorke to appease; not quite so easy a task as the pacification of her housemaids. There she sat plunged in sullen dudgeon, the gloomiest speculations on the depths of man’s ingratitude absorbing her thoughts. He drew near and bent over her; she was obliged to look up, if it were only to bid him “avaunt.” There was beauty still in his pale, wasted features; there was earnestness and a sort of sweetness⁠—for he was smiling⁠—in his hollow eyes.

“Goodbye!” he said, and as he spoke the smile glittered and melted. He had no iron mastery of his sensations now; a trifling emotion made itself apparent in his present weak state.

“And what are you going to leave us for?” she asked. “We will keep you, and do anything in the world for you, if you will only stay till you are stronger.”

“Goodbye!” he again said; and added, “You have been a mother to me; give your wilful son one embrace.”

Like a foreigner, as he was, he offered her first one cheek, then the other. She kissed him.

“What a trouble⁠—what a burden I have been to you!” he muttered.

“You are the worst trouble now, headstrong youth!” was the answer. “I wonder who is to nurse you at Hollow’s Cottage? Your sister Hortense knows no more about such matters than a child.”

“Thank God! for I have had nursing enough to last me my life.”

Here the little girls came in⁠—Jessie crying, Rose quiet but grave. Moore took them out