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Authors: Charlotte Brontë
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they were quite tractable, therefore, without running the smallest danger of being servile; and their unthinking, easy, artless insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient, to Mr. Yorke as that of the chair he sat on, or of the floor he trod.
It will have been observed that he was not quite uncordial with Mr. Moore. He had two or three reasons for entertaining a faint partiality to that gentleman. It may sound odd, but the first of these was that Moore spoke English with a foreign, and French with a perfectly pure, accent; and that his dark,
thin face, with its fine though rather wasted lines, had a most anti-British and anti-Yorkshire look.
These points seem frivolous, unlikely to influence a character like Yorke's; but the fact is they recalled old, perhaps pleasurable, associations—they brought back his travelling, his youthful days.
He had seen, amidst Italian cities and scenes, faces like Moore's; he had heard, in Parisian cafés and
theatres, voices like his. He was young then, and when he looked at and listened to the alien, he seemed young again.
Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had dealings with him. That was a more
substantial, though by no means a more agreeable tie; for as his firm had been connected with Moore's in business, it had also, in some measure, been implicated in its losses.
Thirdly, he had found Robert himself a sharp man of business. He saw reason to anticipate that he
would, in the end, by one means or another, make money; and he respected both his resolution and
acuteness—perhaps, also, his hardness. A fourth circumstance which drew them together was that of
Mr. Yorke being one of the guardians of the minor on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated; consequently Moore, in the course of his alterations and improvements, had frequent occasion to consult him.
As to the other guest now present in Mr. Yorke's parlour, Mr. Helstone, between him and his host
there existed a double antipathy—the antipathy of nature and that of circumstances. The free-thinker
hated the formalist; the lover of liberty detested the disciplinarian. Besides, it was said that in former years they had been rival suitors of the same lady.
Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, noted for his preference of sprightly and dashing
women: a showy shape and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly seemed to attract him. He never,
however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles whose society he sought; and all at once he seriously fell in love with and eagerly wooed a girl who presented a complete contrast to those he had
hitherto noticed—a girl with the face of a Madonna; a girl of living marble—stillness personified. No
matter that, when he spoke to her, she only answered him in monosyllables; no matter that his sighs
seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned, that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, paid him no respect and no attention; no matter that she seemed the opposite of everything feminine he had ever in his whole life been known to admire. For him Mary Cave was perfect, because somehow, for some reason—no doubt he had a reason—he loved her.
Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved Mary too—or, at any rate, he fancied her.
Several others admired her, for she was beautiful as a monumental angel; but the clergyman was preferred for his office's sake—that office probably investing him with some of the illusion necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and which Miss Cave did not find in any of the
young wool-staplers, her other adorers. Mr. Helstone neither had, nor professed to have, Mr. Yorke's
absorbing passion for her. He had none of the humble reverence which seemed to subdue most of her
suitors; he saw her more as she really was than the rest did. He was, consequently, more master of her
and himself. She accepted him at the first offer, and they were married.
Nature never intended Mr.
It will have been observed that he was not quite uncordial with Mr. Moore. He had two or three reasons for entertaining a faint partiality to that gentleman. It may sound odd, but the first of these was that Moore spoke English with a foreign, and French with a perfectly pure, accent; and that his dark,
thin face, with its fine though rather wasted lines, had a most anti-British and anti-Yorkshire look.
These points seem frivolous, unlikely to influence a character like Yorke's; but the fact is they recalled old, perhaps pleasurable, associations—they brought back his travelling, his youthful days.
He had seen, amidst Italian cities and scenes, faces like Moore's; he had heard, in Parisian cafés and
theatres, voices like his. He was young then, and when he looked at and listened to the alien, he seemed young again.
Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had dealings with him. That was a more
substantial, though by no means a more agreeable tie; for as his firm had been connected with Moore's in business, it had also, in some measure, been implicated in its losses.
Thirdly, he had found Robert himself a sharp man of business. He saw reason to anticipate that he
would, in the end, by one means or another, make money; and he respected both his resolution and
acuteness—perhaps, also, his hardness. A fourth circumstance which drew them together was that of
Mr. Yorke being one of the guardians of the minor on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated; consequently Moore, in the course of his alterations and improvements, had frequent occasion to consult him.
As to the other guest now present in Mr. Yorke's parlour, Mr. Helstone, between him and his host
there existed a double antipathy—the antipathy of nature and that of circumstances. The free-thinker
hated the formalist; the lover of liberty detested the disciplinarian. Besides, it was said that in former years they had been rival suitors of the same lady.
Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, noted for his preference of sprightly and dashing
women: a showy shape and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly seemed to attract him. He never,
however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles whose society he sought; and all at once he seriously fell in love with and eagerly wooed a girl who presented a complete contrast to those he had
hitherto noticed—a girl with the face of a Madonna; a girl of living marble—stillness personified. No
matter that, when he spoke to her, she only answered him in monosyllables; no matter that his sighs
seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned, that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, paid him no respect and no attention; no matter that she seemed the opposite of everything feminine he had ever in his whole life been known to admire. For him Mary Cave was perfect, because somehow, for some reason—no doubt he had a reason—he loved her.
Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved Mary too—or, at any rate, he fancied her.
Several others admired her, for she was beautiful as a monumental angel; but the clergyman was preferred for his office's sake—that office probably investing him with some of the illusion necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and which Miss Cave did not find in any of the
young wool-staplers, her other adorers. Mr. Helstone neither had, nor professed to have, Mr. Yorke's
absorbing passion for her. He had none of the humble reverence which seemed to subdue most of her
suitors; he saw her more as she really was than the rest did. He was, consequently, more master of her
and himself. She accepted him at the first offer, and they were married.
Nature never intended Mr.
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