Shirley

(It
is,
or
was,
by-the-by, the custom in the north of England for the cottagers on a country squire's estate to receive their supplies of milk and butter from the dairy of the Manor-House, on whose pastures a herd of milch kine was usually fed for the convenience of the neighbourhood. Miss Keeldar owned such a herd – all deep-dewlapped, Craven cows, reared on the sweet herbage and clear waters of bonnie Airedale; and very proud she was of their sleek aspect and high condition.) Seeing now the state of matters, and that it was desirable to effect a clearance of the premises, Shirley stepped in amongst the gossipping groups. She bade them good-morning with a certain frank, tranquil ease – the natural characteristic of her manner when she addressed numbers; especially if those numbers belonged to the working-class: she was cooler amongst her equals, and rather proud to those above her. She then asked them if they had all got their milk measured out, and understanding that they had, she further observed that she »wondered what they were waiting for, then.«
    »We're just talking a bit over this battle there has been at your mill. Mistress,« replied a man.
    »Talking a bit! Just like you!« said Shirley. »It is a queer thing all the world is so fond of
talking
over events: you
talk
if anybody dies suddenly; you
talk
if a fire breaks out; you
talk
if a mill-owner fails; you
talk
if he's murdered. What good does your talking do?«
    There is nothing the lower orders like better than a little downright good-humoured rating. Flattery they scorn very much: honest abuse they enjoy. They call it speaking plainly, and take a sincere delight in being the objects thereof. The homely harshness of Miss Keeldar's salutation won her the ear of the whole throng in a second.
    »We're no war nor some'at is aboon us; are we?« asked a man, smiling.
    »Nor a whit better: you that should be models of industry are just as gossip-loving as the idle. Fine, rich people that have nothing to do, may be partly excused for trifling their time away: you who have to earn your bread with the sweat of your brow are quite inexcusable.«
    »That's queer, Mistress: suld we never have a holiday because we work hard?«
    »
Never,
« was the prompt answer; »unless,« added the ›mistress‹ with a smile that half-belied the severity of her speech, »unless you knew how to make a better use of it than to get together over rum and tea, if you are women – or over beer and pipes, if you are men, and
talk
scandal at your neighbour's expense. Come, friends,« she added, changing at once from bluntness to courtesy, »oblige me by taking your cans and going home. I expect several persons to call to-day, and it will be inconvenient to have the avenues to the house crowded.«
    Yorkshire people are as yielding to persuasion as they are stubborn against compulsion: the yard was clear in five minutes.
    »Thank you, and good-bye to you, friends,« said Shirley, as she closed the gates on a quiet court.
    Now, let me hear the most refined of Cockneys presume to find fault with Yorkshire manners! Taken as they ought to be, the majority of the lads and lasses of the West-Riding are gentlemen and ladies, every inch of them: it is only against the weak affectation and futile pomposity of a would-be aristocrat they turn mutinous.
    Entering by the back-way, the young ladies passed through the kitchen (or
house,
as the inner kitchen is called) to the hall. Mrs. Pryor came running down the oak staircase to meet them. She was all unnerved: her naturally sanguine complexion was pale; her usually placid, though timid, blue eye was wandering, unsettled, alarmed. She did not, however, break out into any exclamations, or hurried narrative of what had happened. Her predominant feeling had been in the course of the night, and was now this morning, a sense of dissatisfaction with herself that she could not feel firmer, cooler, more equal to the demands of the occasion.
    »You are aware,« she began with a trembling voice, and yet the most conscientious anxiety to avoid exaggeration in what she was about to say, – »that a body of rioters has attacked Mr. Moore's mill to-night: we heard the firing and confusion very plainly here: we none of us slept: it was a sad night: the house has been in great bustle all the morning with people coming and going: the servants have applied to me for orders and directions, which I really did not feel warranted in giving. Mr. Moore has, I believe,