Shirley. Шарлотта Бронте

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СКАЧАТЬ frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone was a high Tory (there were Tories in those days), and Moore was a bitter Whig—a Whig, at least, as far as opposition to the war-party was concerned, that being the question which affected his own interest; and only on that question did he profess any British politics at all. He liked to infuriate Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibility of Bonaparte, by taunting England and Europe with the impotence of their efforts to withstand him, and by coolly advancing the opinion that it was as well to yield to him soon as late, since he must in the end crush every antagonist, and reign supreme.

      Helstone could not bear these sentiments. It was only on the consideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and alien, and having but half measure of British blood to temper the foreign gall which corroded his veins, that he brought himself to listen to them without indulging the wish he felt to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhat allayed his disgust—namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone with which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistency of Moore’s crabbed contumacy.

      As the party turned into the Stilbro’ road, they met what little wind there was; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore had been fretting his companion previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, and perhaps irritated by the sharp drizzle, he began to goad him.

      “Does your Peninsular news please you still?” he asked.

      “What do you mean?” was the surly demand of the rector.

      “I mean, have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord Wellington?”

      “And what do you mean now?”

      “Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebble-hearted idol of England has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French holocaust you want to offer up?”

      “I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte’s marshals into the sea the day it pleases him to lift his arm.”

      “But, my dear sir, you can’t be serious in what you say. Bonaparte’s marshals are great men, who act under the guidance of an omnipotent master-spirit. Your Wellington is the most humdrum of commonplace martinets, whose slow, mechanical movements are further cramped by an ignorant home government.”

      “Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the right champion of a good cause, the fit representative of a powerful, a resolute, a sensible, and an honest nation.”

      “Your good cause, as far as I understand it, is simply the restoration of that filthy, feeble Ferdinand to a throne which he disgraced. Your fit representative of an honest people is a dull-witted drover, acting for a duller-witted farmer; and against these are arrayed victorious supremacy and invincible genius.”

      “Against legitimacy is arrayed usurpation; against modest, single-minded, righteous, and brave resistance to encroachment is arrayed boastful, double-tongued, selfish, and treacherous ambition to possess. God defend the right!”

      “God often defends the powerful.”

      “What! I suppose the handful of Israelites standing dryshod on the Asiatic side of the Red Sea was more powerful than the host of the Egyptians drawn up on the African side? Were they more numerous? Were they better appointed? Were they more mighty, in a word—eh? Don’t speak, or you’ll tell a lie, Moore; you know you will. They were a poor, overwrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants had oppressed them through four hundred years; a feeble mixture of women and children diluted their thin ranks; their masters, who roared to follow them through the divided flood, were a set of pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as the lions of Libya. They were armed, horsed, and charioted; the poor Hebrew wanderers were afoot. Few of them, it is likely, had better weapons than their shepherds’ crooks or their masons’ building-tools; their meek and mighty leader himself had only his rod. But bethink you, Robert Moore, right was with them; the God of battles was on their side. Crime and the lost archangel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, and which triumphed? We know that well. ‘The Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore’—yea, ‘the depths covered them, they sank to the bottom as a stone.’ The right hand of the Lord became glorious in power; the right hand of the Lord dashed in pieces the enemy!”

      “You are all right; only you forget the true parallel. France is Israel, and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with her old over-gorged empires and rotten dynasties, is corrupt Egypt; gallant France is the Twelve Tribes, and her fresh and vigorous Usurper the Shepherd of Horeb.”

      “I scorn to answer you.”

      Moore accordingly answered himself—at least, he subjoined to what he had just said an additional observation in a lower voice.

      “Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses! He was the right thing there, fit to head and organize measures for the regeneration of nations. It puzzles me to this day how the conqueror of Lodi should have condescended to become an emperor, a vulgar, a stupid humbug; and still more how a people who had once called themselves republicans should have sunk again to the grade of mere slaves. I despise France! If England had gone as far on the march of civilization as France did, she would hardly have retreated so shamelessly.”

      “You don’t mean to say that besotted imperial France is any worse than bloody republican France?” demanded Helstone fiercely.

      “I mean to say nothing, but I can think what I please, you know, Mr. Helstone, both about France and England; and about revolutions, and regicides, and restorations in general; and about the divine right of kings, which you often stickle for in your sermons, and the duty of non-resistance, and the sanity of war, and—”

      Mr. Moore’s sentence was here cut short by the rapid rolling up of a gig, and its sudden stoppage in the middle of the road. Both he and the rector had been too much occupied with their discourse to notice its approach till it was close upon them.

      “Nah, maister; did th’ wagons hit home?” demanded a voice from the vehicle.

      “Can that be Joe Scott?”

      “Ay, ay!” returned another voice; for the gig contained two persons, as was seen by the glimmer of its lamp. The men with the lanterns had now fallen into the rear, or rather, the equestrians of the rescue-party had outridden the pedestrians. “Ay, Mr. Moore, it’s Joe Scott. I’m bringing him back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top of the moor yonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him to you?”

      “Why, my thanks, I believe; for I could better have afforded to lose a better man. That is you, I suppose, Mr. Yorke, by your voice?”

      “Ay, lad, it’s me. I was coming home from Stilbro’ market, and just as I got to the middle of the moor, and was whipping on as swift as the wind (for these, they say, are not safe times, thanks to a bad government!), I heard a groan. I pulled up. Some would have whipt on faster; but I’ve naught to fear that I know of. I don’t believe there’s a lad in these parts would harm me—at least, I’d give them as good as I got if they offered to do it. I said, ‘Is there aught wrong anywhere?’ ‘’Deed is there,’ somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. ‘What’s to do? Be sharp and tell me,’ I ordered. ‘Nobbut four on us ligging in a ditch,’ says Joe, as quiet as could be. I telled ’em more shame to ’em, and bid them get up and move on, or I’d lend them a lick of the gig-whip; for my notion was they were all fresh. ‘We’d ha’ done that an hour sin’, but we’re teed wi’ a bit o’ band,’ says Joe. So in a while I got down and loosed ’em wi’ my penknife; and Scott would ride wi’ me, to tell me all how it happened; and t’ others are coming on as fast as their feet will bring them.”

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