The Complete Works: Charlotte, Emily, Anne, Patrick & Branwell Brontë. Anne Bronte

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СКАЧАТЬ Mr. Yorke, after having alighted from his gig, which he left in charge of a man who issued from an outbuilding on his arrival, led the way in.

      It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a little in his phraseology. Now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and anon he expressed himself in very pure English. His manner seemed liable to equal alternations. He could be polite and affable, and he could be blunt and rough. His station then you could not easily determine by his speech and demeanour. Perhaps the appearance of his residence may decide it.

      The men he recommended to take the kitchen way, saying that he would “see them served wi’ summat to taste presently.” The gentlemen were ushered in at the front entrance. They found themselves in a matted hall, lined almost to the ceiling with pictures. Through this they were conducted to a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate — the most cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole, and when you came to examine details, the enlivening effect was not diminished. There was no splendour, but there was taste everywhere, unusual taste — the taste, you would have said, of a travelled man, a scholar, and a gentleman. A series of Italian views decked the walls. Each of these was a specimen of true art. A connoisseur had selected them; they were genuine and valuable. Even by candlelight the bright clear skies, the soft distances, with blue air quivering between the eye and the hills, the fresh tints, and well-massed lights and shadows, charmed the view. The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes were all sunny. There was a guitar and some music on a sofa; there were cameos, beautiful miniatures; a set of Grecian-looking vases on the mantelpiece; there were books well arranged in two elegant bookcases.

      Mr. Yorke bade his guests be seated. He then rang for wine. To the servant who brought it he gave hospitable orders for the refreshment of the men in the kitchen. The rector remained standing; he seemed not to like his quarters; he would not touch the wine his host offered him.

      “E’en as you will,” remarked Mr. Yorke. “I reckon you’re thinking of Eastern customs, Mr. Helstone, and you’ll not eat nor drink under my roof, feared we suld be forced to be friends; but I am not so particular or superstitious. You might sup the contents of that decanter, and you might give me a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I’d hold myself free to oppose you at every turn still — in every vestry-meeting and justice-meeting where we encountered one another.”

      “It is just what I should expect of you, Mr. Yorke.”

      “Does it agree wi’ ye now, Mr. Helstone, to be riding out after rioters, of a wet night, at your age?”

      “It always agrees with me to be doing my duty; and in this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. To hunt down vermin is a noble occupation, fit for an archbishop.”

      “Fit for ye, at ony rate. But where’s t’ curate? He’s happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he’s happen hunting down vermin in another direction.”

      “He is doing garrison-duty at Hollow’s Mill.”

      “You left him a sup o’ wine, I hope, Bob” (turning to Mr. Moore), “to keep his courage up?”

      He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly, still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned chair by the fireside — “Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take the sofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not this. It belangs to me, and nob’dy else.”

      “Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke?” asked Moore, lazily vacating the place in obedience to orders.

      “My father war afore me, and that’s all t’ answer I sall gie thee; and it’s as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for the main feck o’ his notions.”

      “Moore, are you ready to go?” inquired the rector.

      “Nay; Robert’s not ready, or rather, I’m not ready to part wi’ him. He’s an ill lad, and wants correcting.”

      “Why, sir? What have I done?”

      “Made thyself enemies on every hand.”

      “What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?”

      “Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak’ of an alien amang us. His father would never have talked i’ that way. — Go back to Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise tête!”

      “Mauvaise tête vous-même; je ne fais que mon devoir; quant à vos lourdauds de paysans, je m’en moque!”

      “En ravanche, mon garçon, nos lourdauds de paysans se moqueront de toi; sois en certain,” replied Yorke, speaking with nearly as pure a French accent as Gérard Moore.

      “C’est bon! c’est bon! Et puisque cela m’est égal, que mes amis ne s’en inquiètent pas.”

      “Tes amis! Où sont-ils, tes amis?”

      “Je fais écho, où sont-ils? et je suis fort aise que l’écho seul y répond. Au diable les amis! Je me souviens encore du moment où mon père et mes oncles Gérard appellèrent autour d’eux leurs amis, et Dieu sait si les amis se sont empressés d’accourir à leur secours! Tenez, M. Yorke, ce mot, ami, m’irrite trop; ne m’en parlez plus.”

      “Comme tu voudras.”

      And here Mr. Yorke held his peace; and while he sits leaning back in his three-cornered carved oak chair, I will snatch my opportunity to sketch the portrait of this French-speaking Yorkshire gentleman.

      CHAPTER IV.

      MR. YORKE (continued).

      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. 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. 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. 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. 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.

      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.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ