However, having chosen a pen and stripped away the feathered top in a brief spasm of finger-fury (only finger-fury—his face was placid), he dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went out and walked through the mill. On coming back he sat down to read his newspaper.
The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting; he more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire; he occasionally turned his head towards the window; he looked at intervals at his watch; in short, his mind appeared preoccupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather—for it was a fine and mild morning for the season—and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting-house stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine entered freely; but the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only an occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable from the gaunt mill-chimney.
A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered the words “He’s comed, sir,” and vanished.
Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and gray worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, and desired to take a seat, which he did, making the remark, as he removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown, that it was “raight dahn warm for Febewerry.” Mr. Moore assented—at least he uttered some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully deposited in the corner beside him an official-looking staff which he bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way of appearing at his ease.
“You have what is necessary, I suppose?” said Mr. Moore.
“Ay, ay! all’s right.”
He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading. The paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently, however, he turned to his cupboard, which was within reach of his long arm, opened it without rising, took out a black bottle—the same he had produced for Malone’s benefit—a tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said to his guest,—
“Help yourself; there’s water in that jar in the corner.”
“I dunnut knaw that there’s mich need, for all a body is dry (thirsty) in a morning,” said the fustian gentleman, rising and doing as requested.
“Will you tak naught yourseln, Mr. Moore?” he inquired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and having tested it by a deep draught, sank back satisfied and bland in his seat. Moore, chary of words, replied by a negative movement and murmur.
“Yah’d as good,” continued his visitor; “it ’uld set ye up wald a sup o’ this stuff. Uncommon good hollands. Ye get it fro’ furrin parts, I’se think?”
“Ay!”
“Tak my advice and try a glass on’t. Them lads ’at’s coming ’ll keep ye talking, nob’dy knows how long. Ye’ll need propping.”
“Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning?” inquired Moore.
“I seed him a hauf an hour—nay, happen a quarter of an hour sin’, just afore I set off. He said he aimed to come here, and I sudn’t wonder but ye’ll have old Helstone too. I seed ’em saddling his little nag as I passed at back o’ t’ rectory.”
The speaker was a true prophet, for the trot of a little nag’s hoofs was, five minutes after, heard in the yard. It stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud, “Boy” (probably addressing Harry Scott, who usually hung about the premises from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.), “take my horse and lead him into the stable.”
Helstone came in marching nimbly and erect, looking browner, keener, and livelier than usual.
“Beautiful morning, Moore. How do, my boy? Ha! whom have we here?” (turning to the personage with the staff). “Sugden! What! you’re going to work directly? On my word, you lose no time. But I come to ask explanations. Your message was delivered to me. Are you sure you are on the right scent? How do you mean to set about the business? Have you got a warrant?”
“Sugden has.”
“Then you are going to seek him now? I’ll accompany you.”
“You will be spared that trouble, sir; he is coming to seek me. I’m just now sitting in state waiting his arrival.”
“And who is it? One of my parishioners?”
Joe Scott had entered unobserved. He now stood, a most sinister phantom, half his person being dyed of the deepest tint of indigo, leaning on the desk. His master’s answer to the rector’s question was a smile. Joe took the word. Putting on a quiet but pawky look, he said,—
“It’s a friend of yours, Mr. Helstone, a gentleman you often speak of.”
“Indeed! His name, Joe? You look well this morning.”
“Only the Rev. Moses Barraclough; t’ tub orator you call him sometimes, I think.”
“Ah!” said the rector, taking out his snuff-box, and administering to himself a very long pinch—“ah! couldn’t have supposed it. Why, the pious man never was a workman of yours, Moore. He’s a tailor by trade.”
“And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for interfering and setting my discarded men against me.”
“And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro’ Moor? He went there, wooden leg and all?”
“Ay, sir,” said Joe; “he went there on horseback, that his leg mightn’t be noticed. He was the captain, and wore a mask. The rest only had their faces blackened.”
“And how was he found out?”
“I’ll tell you, sir,” said Joe. “T’ maister’s not so fond of talking. I’ve no objections. He courted Sarah, Mr. Moore’s sarvant lass, and so it seems she would have nothing to say to him; she either didn’t like his wooden leg or she’d some notion about his being a hypocrite. Happen (for women is queer hands; we may say that amang werseln when there’s none of ’em nigh) she’d have encouraged him, in spite of his leg and his deceit, just to pass time like. I’ve known some on ’em do as mich, and some o’ t’ bonniest and mimmest-looking, too—ay, I’ve seen clean, trim young things, that looked as denty and pure as daisies, and wi’ time a body fun’ ’em out to be nowt but stinging, venomed nettles.”
“Joe’s a sensible fellow,” interjected Helstone.
“Howsiver, Sarah had another string to her bow. Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her; and as women judge men by their faces—and Fred has a middling face, while Moses is none so handsome, as we all knaw—the lass took on wi’ Fred. A two-three months sin’, Murgatroyd and Moses chanced to meet one Sunday night; they’d both come lurking about these premises wi’ the notion of counselling Sarah to tak a bit of a walk wi’ them. They fell out, had a tussle, and Fred was worsted, for he’s young and small, and Barraclough, for all he has only one leg, is almost as strong as Sugden there—indeed, anybody that hears him roaring at a revival or a love-feast may be sure he’s no weakling.”
“Joe, you’re insupportable,” here broke in Mr. Moore. “You spin out your explanation as Moses spins out his sermons. The long and short of it is, Murgatroyd was jealous of Barraclough; and last night, as he and a friend took shelter in a barn from a shower, they heard and saw Moses conferring with some associates within. From their discourse it was plain he had been the leader, not only at Stilbro’ Moor, but in the attack on Sykes’s property. Moreover they planned a deputation to wait on me this morning, which the tailor is to head, and which, in the most religious and peaceful spirit, is to entreat me to put the accursed thing out of my tent. I rode over to Whinbury this morning, got a constable and a warrant, and I am now waiting to give my friend the reception he deserves. Here, meantime, comes Sykes. Mr. Helstone, you must spirit him up. He feels timid at the thoughts of prosecuting.”
A