The next day Moore had risen before the sun, and had taken a ride to Whinbury and back ere his sister had made the café au lait or cut the tartines for his breakfast. What business he there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions: it was not her to comment on his movements, nor his to render an account of them. The secrets of business—complicated and often mysteries—were buried in his breast, and never came out of their sepulchre save now and then to scare Joe Scott, or give a start to some foreign correspondent. Indeed, a general habit of reserve on whatever was important seemed bred in his mercantile blood.  
Breakfast over, he went to his counting-house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters and the daily papers; Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the documents, and glanced them over. They were all short, but not, it seemed, sweet—probably rather sour, on the contrary, for as Moore laid down the last, his emitted a and snuff, and though he burst into no soliloquy, there was a glance in his eye which seemed to the devil, and lay charges on him to sweep the whole concern to Gehenna. However, having chosen a pen and stripped away the feathered top in a brief of finger-fury (only finger-fury—his face was placid), he dashed off a 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 at his watch; in short, his mind appeared . 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 out111 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 from the gaunt mill-chimney.
 
A dark-blue (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 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 cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown, that it was "raight dahn warm for Febewerry." Mr. Moore —at least he uttered some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an . 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 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 , 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 yourseln, Mr. Moore?" he inquired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and having tested it by a deep , sank back satisfied and in his seat. Moore, of words, replied by a negative movement and .
 
"Yah'd as good," continued his visitor; "it 'uld set ye up wald a sup o' this stuff. 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 ."
 
"Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning?" inquired Moore.
 
"I seed him a hauf an hour—, 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 as I passed at back o' t' rectory."
 
The speaker was a true prophet, for the of a little nag's was, five minutes after, heard in the yard. It stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud, "Boy" (probably addressing Scott, who usually hung about the from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.), "take my horse and lead him into the stable."
 
Helstone came in marching nimbly and , 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 ? 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 , half his person being dyed of the deepest of , 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 . Moses Barraclough; t' tub 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 man never was a workman of yours, Moore. He's a tailor by trade."
 
"And so much the worse I owe him, for and setting my discarded men against me."
 
"And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro' ? 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, ."
 
"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 about these premises wi' the notion of counselling Sarah to tak a bit of a walk wi' them. They fell out, had a , 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 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 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 me to put the accursed thing out of my tent. I rode over to Whinbury this morning, got a 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 ."
 
A gig was heard to roll into the yard. Mr. Sykes entered—a tall man of about fifty, of feature, but feeble of physiognomy. He looked anxious.
 
"Have they been? Are they gone? Have you got him? Is it over?" he asked.
 
"Not yet," returned Moore with phlegm. "We are waiting for them."
 
"They'll not come; it's near noon. Better give it up. It will excite bad feeling—make a stir—cause perhaps fatal consequences."
 
"You need not appear," said Moore. "I shall meet them in the yard when they come; you can stay here."
 
"But my name must be seen in the law . A wife and family, Mr. Moore—a wife and family make a man cautious."
 
Moore looked disgusted. "Give way, if you please," said he; "leave me to myself. I have no objection to act alone; only be assured you will not find safety in . Your partner Pearson gave way, and conceded, and forbore. Well, that did not prevent them from attempting to shoot him in his own house."
 
"My dear sir, take a little wine and water," recommended Mr. Helstone. The wine and water was hollands and water, as Mr. Sykes discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof. It transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face, and made him at least word-valiant. He now announced that he hoped he was above being on by the common people; he was to endure the of the working-classes no longer; he had considered of it, and made up his mind to go all lengths; if money and spirit could put down these rioters, they should be put down; Mr. Moore might do as he liked,115 but he—Christie Sykes—would spend his last penny in law before he would be beaten; he'd settle them, or he'd see.
 
"Take another glass," urged Moore.
 
Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did. This was a cold morning (Sugden had found it a warm one); it was necessary to be careful at this season of the year—it was proper to take something to keep the damp out; he had a little cough already (here he coughed in of the fact); something of this sort (lifting the black bottle) was excellent, taken medicinally (he poured the physic into his tumbler); he didn't make a practice of drinking spirits in a morning, but occasionally it really was to take precautions.
 
"Quite prudent, and take them by all means," urged the host.
 
Mr. Sykes now addressed Mr. Helstone, who stood on the , his shovel-hat on his head, watching him significantly with his little, keen eyes.
 
"You, sir, as a clergyman," said he, "may feel it disagreeable to be present amidst scenes of hurry and flurry, and, I may say, . I dare say your nerves won't stand it. You're a man of peace, sir; but we manufacturers, living in the world, and always in , get quite . Really, there's an ardour excited by the thoughts of danger that makes my heart pant. When Mrs. Sykes is afraid of the house being attacked and broke open—as she is every night—I get quite excited. I couldn't describe to you, sir, my feelings. Really, if anybody was to come—thieves or anything—I believe I should enjoy it, such is my spirit."
 
The hardest of laughs, though brief and low, and by no means insulting, was the response of the rector. Moore would have pressed upon the heroic mill-owner a third tumbler, but the clergyman, who never , nor would suffer others in his presence to , the bounds of decorum, checked him.
 
"Enough is as good as a feast, is it not, Mr. Sykes?" he said; and Mr. Sykes assented, and then sat and watched Joe Scott remove the bottle at a sign from Helstone, with a self-satisfied simper on his lips and a regretful in his eye. Moore looked as if he should have liked to fool him to the top of his . What would a certain young kinswoman of his have said could she have seen her dear, good, great Robert—her Coriolanus—just now? Would116 she have acknowledged in that , visage the same face to which she had looked up with such love, which had bent over her with such gentleness last night? Was that the man who had spent so quiet an evening with his sister and his cousin—so to one, so tender to the other—reading Shakespeare and listening to Chénier?
 
Yes, it was the same man, only seen on a different side—a side Caroline had not yet fairly , though perhaps she had enough sagacity faintly to suspect its existence. Well, Caroline had, doubtless, her side too. She was human. She must, then, have been very imperfect; and had she seen Moore on his very worst side, she would probably have said this to herself and excused him. Love can excuse anything except meanness; but meanness kills love, cripples even natural affection; without true love cannot exist. Moore, with all his faults, might be ; for he had no moral scrofula in his mind, no hopeless polluting taint—such, for instance, as that of falsehood; neither was he the slave of his appetites. The active life to which he had been born and bred had given him something else to do than to join the chase of the pleasure-hunter. He was a man undegraded, the of reason, not the of sense. The same might be said of old Helstone. Neither of these two would look, think, or speak a lie; for neither of them had the wretched black bottle, which had just been put away, any charms. Both might boast a claim to the proud title of "lord of the creation," for no animal was lord of them; they looked and were superior beings to poor Sykes.
 
A sort of and sound was heard in the yard, and then a pause. Moore walked to the window; Helstone followed. Both stood on one side, the tall junior behind the under-sized senior, looking carefully, so that they might not be visible from without. Their sole comment on what they saw was a smile flashed into each other's stern eyes.
 
A flourishing cough was now heard, followed by the interjection "Whisht!" designed, as it seemed, to still the hum of several voices. Moore opened his an inch or two to admit sound more freely.
 
"Joseph Scott," began a snuffling voice—Scott was sentinel at the counting-house door—"might we inquire if your master be within, and is to be spoken to?"
 
"He's within, ay," said Joe nonchalantly.
 
"Would you then, if you please" (emphasis on "you"), "have the goodness to tell him that twelve gentlemen wants to see him."
 
"He'd happen ax what for," suggested Joe. "I mught as weel tell him that at t' same time."
 
"For a purpose," was the answer. Joe entered.
 
"Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to see ye, 'for a purpose.'"
 
"Good, Joe; I'm their man.—Sugden, come when I whistle."
 
Moore went out, dryly. He advanced into the yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat, his cap brim over his eyes, shading in some measure their deep dancing ray of scorn. Twelve men waited in the yard, some in their shirt-sleeves, some in blue . Two figured in the van of the party. One, a little dapper man with a turned-up nose; the other a broad-shouldered fellow, no less by his face and cat like, trustless eyes than by a wooden leg and stout . There was a kind of leer about his lips; he seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing; his whole air was anything but that of a true man.
 
"Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough,&q............