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

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СКАЧАТЬ is an honest lass. But when I was Robert’s age I had five or six sisters, all as decent and proper as she is; but you see, Hesther, for all that it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife.”

      “And sorely he has repented marrying me,” added Mrs. Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense. “He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see his punishment” (here she pointed to her children). “Who would burden themselves with such a set of great, rough lads as those, if they could help it? It is not only bringing them into the world, though that is bad enough, but they are all to feed, to clothe, to rear, to settle in life. Young sir, when you feel tempted to marry, think of our four sons and two daughters, and look twice before you leap.”

      “I am not tempted now, at any rate. I think these are not times for marrying or giving in marriage.”

      A lugubrious sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain Mrs. Yorke’s approbation. She nodded and groaned acquiescence; but in a minute she said, “I make little account of the wisdom of a Solomon of your age; it will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you. Meantime, sit down, sir. You can talk, I suppose, as well sitting as standing?”

      This was her way of inviting her guest to take a chair. He had no sooner obeyed her than little Jessy jumped from her father’s knee and ran into Mr. Moore’s arms, which were very promptly held out to receive her.

      “You talk of marrying him,” said she to her mother, quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, “and he is married now, or as good. He promised that I should be his wife last summer, the first time he saw me in my new white frock and blue sash. Didn’t he, father?” (These children were not accustomed to say papa and mamma; their mother would allow no such “namby-pamby.”)

      “Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I’ll bear witness. But make him say it over again now, Jessy. Such as he are only false loons.”

      “He is not false. He is too bonny to be false,” said Jessy, looking up to her tall sweetheart with the fullest confidence in his faith.

      “Bonny!” cried Mr. Yorke. “That’s the reason that he should be, and proof that he is, a scoundrel.”

      “But he looks too sorrowful to be false,” here interposed a quiet voice from behind the father’s chair. “If he was always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs.”

      “Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all, Rose,” remarked Mr. Yorke.

      “He’s not sentimental,” said Rose.

      Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling at the same time.

      “How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose?”

      “Because I heard a lady say you were not.”

      “Voilà, qui devient intéressant!” exclaimed Mr. Yorke, hitching his chair nearer the fire. “A lady! That has quite a romantic twang. We must guess who it is. — Rosy, whisper the name low to your father. Don’t let him hear.”

      “Rose, don’t be too forward to talk,” here interrupted Mrs. Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion, “nor Jessy either. It becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the presence of their elders.”

      “Why have we tongues, then?” asked Jessy pertly; while Rose only looked at her mother with an expression that seemed to say she should take that maxim in and think it over at her leisure. After two minutes’ grave deliberation, she asked, “And why especially girls, mother?”

      “Firstly, because I say so; and secondly, because discretion and reserve are a girl’s best wisdom.”

      “My dear madam,” observed Moore, “what you say is excellent — it reminds me, indeed, of my dear sister’s observations; but really it is not applicable to these little ones. Let Rose and Jessy talk to me freely, or my chief pleasure in coming here is gone. I like their prattle; it does me good.”

      “Does it not?” asked Jessy. “More good than if the rough lads came round you. — You call them rough, mother, yourself.”

      “Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more good. I have rough lads enough about me all day long, poulet.”

      “There are plenty of people,” continued she, “who take notice of the boys. All my uncles and aunts seem to think their nephews better than their nieces, and when gentlemen come here to dine, it is always Matthew, and Mark, and Martin that are talked to, and never Rose and me. Mr. Moore is our friend, and we’ll keep him. — But mind, Rose, he’s not so much your friend as he is mine. He is my particular acquaintance; remember that!” And she held up her small hand with an admonitory gesture.

      Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished by that small hand. Her will daily bent itself to that of the impetuous little Jessy. She was guided, overruled by Jessy in a thousand things. On all occasions of show and pleasure Jessy took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background; whereas, when the disagreeables of life — its work and privations — were in question, Rose instinctively took upon her, in addition to her own share, what she could of her sister’s. Jessy had already settled it in her mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married; Rose, she decided, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after her children, keep her house. This state of things is not uncommon between two sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this case, if there was a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage: her face was more regular-featured than that of the piquant little Jessy. Jessy, however, was destined to possess, along with sprightly intelligence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, the power to charm when, where, and whom she would. Rose was to have a fine, generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract was not to be hers.

      “Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I was sentimental,” urged Mr. Moore.

      Rose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have held him a while in doubt. She answered briefly, “I can’t. I don’t know her name.”

      “Describe her to me. What was she like? Where did you see her?”

      “When Jessy and I went to spend the day at Whinbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home from school, there was a party at Mrs. Pearson’s, and some grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of the drawing-room talking about you.”

      “Did you know none of them?”

      “Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and Mary Sykes.”

      “Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?”

      “Some of them were. They called you a misanthrope. I remember the word. I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home. It means a man-hater.”

      “What besides?”

      “Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy.”

      “Better!” cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. “Oh, excellent! Hannah! that’s the one with the red hair — a fine girl, but half-witted.”

      “She has wit enough for me, it appears,” said Moore. “A solemn puppy, indeed! Well, Rose, go on.”

      “Miss Pearson said she believed СКАЧАТЬ