North and South
his mother alive.
“I always dislike that doing things in such a hurry,” said Mrs. Hale.
Margaret was silent.
“Come now, ma’am,” said Dixon, with a kind of cheerful authority, “you
know seeing Master Frederick is just the very thing of all others you’re
longing for. And I’m glad Miss Margaret wrote off straight, without
shilly-shallying. I’ve had a great mind to do it myself. And we’ll keep
him snug, depend upon it. There’s only Martha in the house that would
not do a good deal to save him on a pinch; and I’ve been thinking she
might go and see her mother just at that very time. She’s been saying
once or twice she should like to go, for her mother has had a stroke
since she came here; only she didn’t like to ask. But I’ll see about her
being safe off, as soon as we know when he comes, God bless him! So take
your tea, ma’am, in comfort, and trust to me.”
Mrs. Hale did trust in Dixon more than in Margaret. Dixon’s words
quieted her for the time. Margaret poured out the tea in silence, trying
to think of something agreeable to say; but her thoughts made answer
something like Daniel O’Rourke, when the man-in-the moon asked him to
get off his reaping-hook. “The more you ax us, the more we won’t stir.”
The more she tried to think of something—anything besides the danger to
which Frederick would be exposed—the more closely her imagination clung
to the unfortunate idea presented to her. Her mother prattled with
Dixon, and seemed to have utterly forgotten the possibility of Frederick
being tried and executed—utterly forgotten that at her wish, if by
Margaret’s deed, he was summoned into this danger. Her mother was one of
those who throw out terrible possibilities, miserable probabilities,
unfortunate chances of all kinds, as a rocket throws out sparks; but if
the sparks light on some combustible matter, they smoulder first, and
burst out into a frightful flame at last. Margaret was glad when, her
filial duties gently and carefully performed, she could go down into the
study. She wondered how her father and Higgins had got on.
In the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, simple, old-fashioned
gentleman, had unconsciously called out, by his own refinement and
courteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy in the other.
Mr. Hale treated all his fellow-creatures alike: it never entered into
his head to make any difference because of their rank. He placed a chair
for Nicholas; stood up till he, at Mr. Hale’s request, took a seat; and
called him, invariably, “Mr. Higgins,” instead of the curt “Nicholas” or
“Higgins,” to which the “drunken infidel weaver” had been accustomed.
But Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor a thorough infidel. He
drank to drown care, as he would have himself expressed it: and he was
infidel so far as he had never yet found any form of faith to which he
could attach himself, heart and soul.
Margaret was a little surprised, and very much pleased, when she found
her father and Higgins in earnest conversation—each speaking with
gentle politeness to the other, however their opinions might clash.
Nicholas—clean, tidied (if only at the pump-trough), and quiet
spoken—was a new creature to her, who had only seen him in the rough
independence of his own hearthstone. He had “slicked” his hair down with
the fresh water; he had adjusted his neck-handkerchief, and borrowed an
odd candle-end to polish his clogs with; and there he sat, enforcing
some opinion on her father, with a strong Darkshire accent, it is true,
but with a lowered voice, and a good, earnest composure on his face. Her
father, too, was interested in what his companion was saying. He looked
round as she came in, smiled, and quietly gave her his chair, and then
sat down afresh as quickly as possible, and with a little bow of apology
to his guest for the interruption. Higgins nodded to her as a sign of
greeting; and she softly adjusted her working materials on the table,
and prepared to listen.
“As I was a-saying, sir, I reckon yo’d not ha’ much belief in yo’ if yo’
lived here,—if yo’d been bred here. I ax your pardon if I use wrong
words; but what I mean by belief just now, is a-thinking on sayings and
maxims and promises made by folk yo’ never saw, about the things and the
life yo’ never saw, nor no one else. Now, yo’ say these are true things,
and true sayings, and a true life. I just say, where’s the proof?
There’s many and many a one wiser, and scores better learned than I am
around me,—folk who’ve had time to think on these things,—while my
time has had to be gi’en up to getting my bread. Well, I sees these
people. Their lives is pretty much open to me. They’re real folk. They
don’t believe i’ the Bible,—not they. They may say they do, for form’s
sake; but Lord, sir, d’ye think their first cry i’ th’ morning is, ‘What
shall I do to get hold on eternal life?’ or ‘What shall I do to fill my
purse this blessed day? Where shall I go? What bargains shall I strike?’
The purse and the gold and the notes is real things; things as can be
felt and touched; them’s realities; and eternal life is all a talk, very
fit for—I ax your pardon, sir; yo’r a parson out o’ work, I believe.
Well! I’ll never speak disrespectful of a man in the same fix as I’m in
mysel. But I’ll just ax yo’ another question, sir, and I dunnot want yo’
to answer it, only to put in yo’r pipe, and smoke it, afore yo’ go for
to set down us, who only believe in what we see, as fools and noddies.
If salvation, and life to come, and what not, was true—not in men’s
words, but in men’s hearts’ core—dun yo’ not think they’d din us wi’ it
as they do wi’ political ’conomy? They’re mighty anxious to come round
us wi’ that piece o’ wisdom; but t’other would be a greater convarsion,
if it were true.”
“But the masters have nothing to do with your religion. All that they
are connected with you in is trade,—so they think,—and all that it
concerns them, therefore, to rectify your opinions in is the science of
trade.”
“I’m glad, sir,” said Higgins, with a curious wink of his eye, “that yo’
put in, ‘so they think.’ I’d ha’ thought yo’ a hyprocrite, I’m afeard,
if yo’ hadn’t, for all yo’r a parson, or rayther because yo’r a parson.
Yo’ see, if yo’d spoken o’ religion as a thing that, if it was true, it
didn’t concern all men to press on all men’s attention, above everything
else in this ’varsal earth, I should ha’ thought yo’ a knave for to be a
parson; and I’d rather think yo’ a fool than a knave. No offence, I
hope, sir.”
“None at all. You consider me mistaken, and I consider you far more
fatally mistaken. I don’t expect to convince you in a day,—not in one
conversation; but let us know each other, and speak freely to each other
about these things, and the truth will prevail. I should not believe in
God if I did not believe that. Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you
have given up, you believe”—(Mr. Hale’s voice dropped low in
reverence)—“you believe in Him.”
Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up. Margaret started to
her feet,—for she thought, by the working of his face, he was going
into convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at her dismayed. At last Higgins found
words:
“Man! I could fell yo’ to the ground for tempting me. Whatten business
have yo’ to try me wi’ your doubts? Think o’ her lying theere, after the
life hoo’s led; and think then how yo’d deny me the one sole comfort
left—that there is a God, and that He set her her life. I dunnot
believe she’ll ever live again,” said he, sitting down, and drearily
going on, as if to the unsympathising fire. “I dunnot believe in any
other life than this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such
never-ending care; and I cannot bear to think it were all a set o’
chances, that might ha’ been altered wi’ a breath o’ wind. There’s many
a time when I’ve thought I didna believe in God, but I’ve never put it
fair out before me in words, as many men do. I may ha’ laughed at those
who did, to brave it out like—but I have looked round at after, to see
if He heard me, if so be there was a He; but to-day, when I’m left
desolate, I wunnot listen to yo’ wi’ yo’r questions, and yo’r doubts.
There’s but one thing steady and quiet i’ all this reeling world, and,
reason or no reason, I’ll cling to that. It’s a’ very well for happy
folk”——
Margaret touched his arm very softly. She had not spoken before, nor had
he heard her rise.
“Nicholas, we do not want to reason; you misunderstand my father. We do
not reason—we believe; and so do you. It is the one sole comfort in
such times.”
He turned round and caught her hand. “Ay! it is, it is”—(brushing away
the tears with the back of his hand).—“But yo’ know, she’s lying dead
at home; and I’m welly dazed wi’ sorrow, and at times I hardly know what
I’m saying. It’s as if speeches folk ha’ made—clever and smart things
as I’ve thought at the time—come up now my heart’s welly brossen. Th’
strike’s failed as well; dun yo’ know that, miss? I were coming whoam to
ask her, like a beggar as I am, for a bit o’ comfort i’ that trouble;
and I were knocked down by one who telled me she were dead—just dead.
That were all; but that were enough for me.”
Mr. Hale blew his nose, and got up to snuff the candles in order to
conceal his emotion. “He’s not an infidel, Margaret; how could you say
so?” muttered he reproachfully. “I’ve a good mind to read him the
fourteenth chapter of Job.”
“Not yet, papa, I think. Perhaps not at all. Let us ask him about the
strike, and give him all the sympathy he needs, and hoped to have from
poor Bessy.”
So they questioned and listened. The workmen’s calculations were based
(like too many of the masters’) on false premises. They reckoned on
their fellow-men as if they possessed the calculable powers of machines,
no more, no less; no allowance for human passions getting the better of
reason, as in the case of Boucher and the rioters; and believing that
the representations of their injuries would have the same effect on
strangers far away, as the injuries (fancied or real) had upon
themselves. They were consequently surprised and indignant at the poor
Irish, who had allowed themselves to be imported and brought over to
take their places. This indignation was tempered in some degree, by
contempt for “them Irishers,” and by pleasure at the idea of the
bungling way in which they would set to work, and perplex their new
masters with their ignorance and stupidity, strange exaggerated stories
of which were already spreading through the town. But the most cruel cut
of all was that of the Milton workmen, who had defied and disobeyed the
commands of the Union to keep the peace, whatever came; who had
originated discord in the camp, and spread the panic of the law being
arrayed against them.
“And so the strike is at an end,” said Margaret.
“Ay, miss. It’s save as save can. Th’ factory doors will need open wide
to-morrow to let in all who’ll be axing for work; if it’s only just to
show they’d nought to do wi’ a measure, which if we’d been made o’ th’
right stuff would ha’ brought wages up to a point they’n not been at
this ten year.”
“You’ll get work, shan’t you?” asked Margaret. “You’re a famous workman,
are not you?”
“Hamper’ll let me work at his mill, when he cuts off his right hand—not
before, and not after,” said Nicholas, quietly. Margaret was silenced
and sad.
“About the wages,” said Mr. Hale. “You’ll not be offended, but I think
you make some sad mistakes. I should like to read you some remarks in a
book I have.” He got up and went to his bookshelves.
“Yo’ needn’t trouble yoursel’, sir,” said Nicholas. “Their book-stuff
goes in at one ear and out at t’other. I can make nought on’t. Afore
Hamper and me had this split, th’ overlooker telled him I were stirring
up th’ men to ask for higher wages; and Hamper met me one day in th’