Shirley

hackney to be sent to the »George« for his accommodation; and Joe Scott having informed Mr. Yorke, that gentleman made it in his way to meet him.
    It was market-day: Moore arrived in time to take his usual place at the market-dinner. As something of a stranger – and as a man of note and action – the assembled manufacturers received him with a certain distinction. Some – who in public would scarcely have dared to acknowledge his acquaintance, lest a little of the hate and vengeance laid up in store for him should perchance have fallen on them – in private hailed him as in some sort their champion. When the wine had circulated, their respect would have kindled to enthusiasm, had not Moore's unshaken nonchalance held it in a damp, low, smouldering state.
    Mr. Yorke – the permanent president of these dinners – witnessed his young friend's bearing with exceeding complacency. If one thing could stir his temper or excite his contempt more than another, it was to see a man befooled by flattery, or elate with popularity. If one thing smoothed, soothed, and charmed him especially, it was the spectacle of a public character incapable of relishing his publicity:
incapable,
I say; disdain would but have incensed – it was indifference that appeased his rough spirit.
    Robert, leaning back in his chair, quiet and almost surly, while the clothiers and blanket-makers vaunted his prowess and rehearsed his deeds – many of them interspersing their flatteries with coarse invectives against the operative class – was a delectable sight for Mr. Yorke. His heart tingled with the pleasing conviction that these gross eulogiums shamed Moore deeply, and made him half scorn himself and his work. On abuse, on reproach, on calumny, it is easy to smile; but painful indeed is the panegyric of those we contemn. Often had Moore gazed with a brilliant countenance over howling crowds from a hostile hustings: he had breasted the storm of unpopularity with gallant bearing and soul elate; but he drooped his head under the half-bred tradesmen's praise, and shrank chagrined before their congratulations.
    Yorke could not help asking him how he liked his supporters, and whether he did not think they did honour to his cause. »But it is a pity, lad,« he added, »that you did not hang these four samples of the Unwashed. If you had managed
that
feat, the gentry here would have riven the horses out of the coach, yoked to a score of asses, and drawn you into Stilbro' like a conquering general.«
    Moore soon forsook the wine, broke from the party, and took the road. In less than five minutes Mr. Yorke followed him: they rode out of Stilbro' together.
    It was early to go home, but yet it was late in the day: the last ray of the sun had already faded from the cloud-edges, and the October night was casting over the moorlands the shadow of her approach.
    Mr. Yorke – moderately exhilarated with his moderate libations, and not displeased to see young Moore again in Yorkshire, and to have him for his comrade during the long ride home – took the discourse much to himself. He touched briefly, but scoffingly, on the trials and the conviction; he passed thence to the gossip of the neighbourhood, and, erelong, he attacked Moore on his own personal concerns.
    »Bob, I believe you are worsted; and you deserve it. All was smooth. Fortune had fallen in love with you: she had decreed you the first prize in her wheel – twenty thousand pounds: she only required that you should hold your hand out and take it. And what did you do? You called for a horse and rode a-hunting to Warwickshire. Your sweetheart – Fortune, I mean – was perfectly indulgent. She said, ›I'll excuse him: he's young.‹ She waited like ›Patience on a monument,‹ till the chase was over, and the vermin-prey run down. She expected you would come back then, and be a good lad: you might still have had her first prize.
    It capped her beyond expression, and me too, to find that, instead of thundering home in a breakneck gallop, and laying your assize-laurels at her feet, you coolly took coach up to London. What you have done there, Satan knows: nothing in this world, I believe, but sat and sulked: your face was never lily-fair, but it is olive-green now. You 're not as bonnie as you were, man.«
    »And who is to have this prize you talk so much about?«
    »Only a baronet: that is all. I have not a doubt in my own mind you 've lost her: she will be Lady Nunnely before Christmas.«
    »Hem!