Shirley

Latterly, he had often worked at Fieldhead; Miss Keeldar's frank, hospitable manners were perfectly charming to him. Caroline he had known from her childhood: unconsciously, she was his ideal of a lady. Her gentle mien, step, gestures, her grace of person and attire, moved some artist-fibres about his peasant heart: he had a pleasure in looking at her, as he had in examining rare flowers, or in seeing pleasant landscapes. Both the ladies liked William: it was their delight to lend him books, to give him plants; and they preferred his conversation far before that of many coarse, hard, pretentious people, immeasurably higher in station.
    »Who was speaking, William, when you came out?« asked Shirley.
    »A gentleman ye set a deal of store on, Miss Shirley – Mr. Donne.«
    »You look knowing, William. How did you find out my regard for Mr. Donne?«
    »Ay, Miss Shirley, there's a gleg light i' your een sometimes which betrays you. You look raight down scornful sometimes, when Mr. Donne is by.«
    »Do you like him yourself, William?«
    »Me? I'm stalled o' t' curates, and so is t' wife: they've no manners; they talk to poor folk fair as if they thought they were beneath them. They're allus magnifying their office: it is a pity but their office could magnify them; but it does nought o' t' soart. I fair hate pride.«
    »But you are proud in your own way yourself,« interposed Caroline: »you are what you call house-proud; you like to have everything handsome about you: sometimes you look as if you were almost too proud to take your wages. When you were out of work, you were too proud to get anything on credit; but for your children, I believe you would rather have starved than gone to the shops without money; and when I wanted to give you something, what a difficulty I had in making you take it!«
    »It is partly true, Miss Caroline: ony day I'd rather give than take, especially from sich as ye. Look at t' difference between us: ye're a little, young, slender lass, and I'm a great strong man: I'm rather more nor twice your age. It is not
my
part then, I think, to tak' fro'
ye –
to be under obligations (as they say) to
ye;
and that day ye came to our house, and called me to t' door, and offered me five shillings, which I doubt ye could ill spare, – for ye've no fortin', I know, – that day I war fair a rebel – a radical – an insurrectionist; and
ye
made me so. I thought it shameful that, willing and able as I was to work, I suld be i' such a condition that a young cratur about the age o' my own eldest lass suld think it needful to come and offer me her bit o' brass.«
    »I suppose you were angry with me, William?«
    »I almost was, in a way; but I forgave ye varry soon: ye meant well. Ay,
I am
proud, and so are
ye;
but your pride and mine is t' raight mak' – what we call i' Yorkshire ›clean pride,‹ – such as Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne knows nought about: theirs is mucky pride. Now, I shall teach my lasses to be as proud as Miss Shirley there, and my lads to be as proud as myseln; but I dare ony o' 'em to be like t' curates: I'd lick little Michael, if I seed him show any signs o' that feeling.«
    »What is the difference, William?«
    »Ye know t' difference weel enew, but ye want me to get a gate o' talking. Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne is almost too proud to do aught for theirsel'n;
we
are almost too proud to let anybody do aught for us. T' curates can hardly bide to speak a civil word to them they think beneath them;
we
can hardly bide to tak' an uncivil word fro' them that thinks themsel'n aboon us.«
    »Now, William, be humble enough to tell me truly how you are getting on in the world? Are you well off?«
    »Miss Shirley – I am varry well off. Since I got into t' gardening line, wi' Mr. Yorke's help, and since Mr. Hall (another o' t' raight sort) helped my wife to set up a bit of a shop, I've nought to complain of. My family has plenty to eat and plenty to wear: my pride makes me find means to save an odd pound now and then against rainy days; for I think I'd die afore I'd come to t' parish: and me and mine is content; but th' neighbours is poor yet: I see a great deal of distress.«
    »And, consequently, there is still discontent, I suppose?« inquired Miss Keeldar.
    »
Consequently –
ye say right –
consequently.
In course, starving folk cannot be satisfied or settled folk. The country's not in a safe condition; – I'll say so mich!«
    »But what can be done? What more can I do, for