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sense. What a guy you were, father! As to dressing, I make this vow: I’ll never dress more finely than as you see me at present.—Mr. Moore, I’m clad in blue cloth from top to toe, and they laugh at me, and call me sailor at the grammar-school. I laugh louder at them, and say they are all magpies and parrots, with their coats one colour, and their waistcoats another, and their trousers a third. I’ll always wear blue cloth, and nothing but blue cloth. It is beneath a human being’s dignity to dress himself in parti-coloured garments.”
“Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor’s shop will have choice of colours varied enough for thy exacting taste; no perfumer’s stores essences exquisite enough for thy fastidious senses.”
Martin looked disdain, but vouchsafed no further reply. Meantime Mark, who for some minutes had been rummaging amongst a pile of books on a side-table, took the word. He spoke in a peculiarly slow, quiet voice, and with an expression of still irony in his face not easy to describe.
“Mr. Moore,” said he, “you think perhaps it was a compliment on Miss Caroline Helstone’s part to say you were not sentimental. I thought you appeared confused when my sisters told you the words, as if you felt flattered. You turned red, just like a certain vain little lad at our school, who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a rise in the class. For your benefit, Mr. Moore, I’ve been looking up the word ‘sentimental’ in the dictionary, and I find it to mean ‘tinctured with sentiment.’ On examining further, ‘sentiment’ is explained to be thought, idea, notion. A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts, ideas, notions; an unsentimental man is one destitute of thought, idea, or notion.”
And Mark stopped. He did not smile, he did not look round for admiration. He had said his say, and was silent.
“Ma foi! mon ami,” observed Mr. Moore to Yorke, “ce sont vraiment des enfants terribles, que les votres!”
Rose, who had been listening attentively to Mark’s speech, replied to him, “There are different kinds of thoughts, ideas, and notions,” said she, “good and bad. Sentimental must refer to the bad, or Miss Helstone must have taken it in that sense, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore; she was defending him.”
“That’s my kind little advocate!” said Moore, taking Rose’s hand.
“She was defending him,” repeated Rose, “as I should have done had I been in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully.”
“Ladies always do speak spitefully,” observed Martin. “It is the nature of womenites to be spiteful.”
Matthew now, for the first time, opened his lips. “What a fool Martin is, to be always gabbling about what he does not understand!”
“It is my privilege, as a freeman, to gabble on whatever subject I like,” responded Martin.
“You use it, or rather abuse it, to such an extent,” rejoined the elder brother, “that you prove you ought to have been a slave.”
“A slave! a slave! That to a Yorke, and from a Yorke! This fellow,” he added, standing up at the table, and pointing across it to Matthew—“this fellow forgets, what every cottier in Briarfield knows, that all born of our house have that arched instep under which water can flow—proof that there has not been a slave of the blood for three hundred years.”
“Mountebank!” said Matthew.
“Lads, be silent!” exclaimed Mr. Yorke.—“Martin, you are a mischief-maker. There would have been no disturbance but for you.”
“Indeed! Is that correct? Did I begin, or did Matthew? Had I spoken to him when he accused me of gabbling like a fool?”
“A presumptuous fool!” repeated Matthew.
Here Mrs. Yorke commenced rocking herself—rather a portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally followed, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict, by a fit of hysterics.
“I don’t see why I should bear insolence from Matthew Yorke, or what right he has to use bad language to me,” observed Martin.
“He has no right, my lad; but forgive your brother until seventy-and-seven times,” said Mr. Yorke soothingly.
“Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse!” murmured Martin as he turned to leave the room.
“Where art thou going, my son?” asked the father.
“Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult, if in this house I can find any such place.”
Matthew laughed very insolently. Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled through all his slight lad’s frame; but he restrained himself.
“I suppose there is no objection to my withdrawing?” he inquired.
“No. Go, my lad; but remember not to bear malice.”
Martin went, and Matthew sent another insolent laugh after him. Rose, lifting her fair head from Moore’s shoulder, against which, for a moment, it had been resting, said, as she directed a steady gaze to Matthew, “Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would rather be Martin than you. I dislike your nature.”
Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting, or at least escaping, a scene—which a sob from Mrs. Yorke warned him was likely to come on—rose, and putting Jessy off his knee, he kissed her and Rose, reminding them, at the same time, to be sure and come to the Hollow in good time to-morrow afternoon; then, having taken leave of his hostess, he said to Mr. Yorke, “May I speak a word with you?” and was followed by him from the room. Their brief conference took place in the hall.
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