North and South
say. ‘Gi’ me work’ means ‘and I’ll do it like a man.’ Them’s good
words.”
“And bad words are refusing you work when you ask for it.”
“Ay. Bad words is saying ‘Aha, my fine chap! Yo’ve been true to yo’r
order, and I’ll be true to mine. Yo’ did the best yo’ could for them as
wanted help; that’s yo’re way of being true to yo’re kind: and I’ll be
true to mine. Yo’ve been a poor fool, as knowed no better nor be a true
faithful fool. So go and be d—d to yo’. There’s no work for yo’ here.’
Them’s bad words. I’m not a fool; and if I was, folk ought to ha’ taught
me how to be wise after their fashion. I could m’appen ha’ learnt, if
any one had tried to teach me.”
“Would it not be worth while,” said Mr. Hale, “to ask your old master if
he would take you back again? It might be a poor chance, but it would be
a chance.”
He looked up again, with a sharp glance at the questioner; and then
tittered a low and bitter laugh.
“Measter! if it’s no offence, I’ll ask yo’ a question or two in my
turn.”
“You’re quite welcome,” said Mr. Hale.
“I reckon yo’n some way of earning your bread. Folk seldom lives i’
Milton just for pleasure, if they can live anywhere else.”
“You are quite right. I have some independent property, but my intention
in settling in Milton was to become a private tutor.”
“To teach folk. Well! I reckon they pay yo’ for teaching them, dunnot
they?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Hale, smiling. “I teach in order to get paid.”
“And them that pays yo’, dun they tell yo’ whatten to do, or whatten not
to do wi’ the money they gives you in just payment for your pains—in
fair exchange like?”
“No; to be sure not!”
“They dunnot say, ‘Yo’ may have a brother, or a friend as dear as a
brother, who wants this here brass for a purpose both yo’ and he think
right; but yo’ mun promise not give it to him. Yo’ may see a good use,
as yo’ think, to put yo’r money to; but we don’t think it good, and so
if yo’ spend it a-thatens we’ll just leave off dealing with yo’.’ They
dunnot say that, dun they?”
“No: to be sure not!”
“Would yo’ stand it if they did?”
“It would be some very hard pressure that would make me even think of
submitting to such dictation.”
“There’s not the pressure on all the broad earth that would make me,”
said Nicholas Higgins. “Now yo’ve got it. Yo’ve hit the bull’s eye.
Hampers—that’s where I worked—makes their men pledge ’emselves they’ll
not give a penny to help th’ Union or keep turn-outs fro’ clemming. They
may pledge and make pledge,” continued he, scornfully; “they nobbut make
liars and hypocrites. And that’s a less sin, to my mind, to make men’s
hearts so hard that they’ll not do a kindness to them as needs it, or
help on the right and just cause, though it goes again the strong hand.
But I’ll ne’er forswear mysel’ for a’ the work the king could gi’e me.
I’m a member o’ the Union; and I think it’s the only thing to do the
workmen any good. And I’ve been a turn-out, and known what it was to
clem; so if I get a shilling, sixpence shall go to them if they axe it
from me. Consequence is, I dunnot see where I’m to get a shilling.”
“Is that rule about not contributing to the Union in force at all the
mills?” asked Margaret.
“I cannot say. It’s a new regulation at ours; and I reckon they’ll find
that they cannot stick to it. But it’s in force now. By-and-by they’ll
find out, tyrants makes liars.”
There was a little pause. Margaret was hesitating whether she should say
what was in her mind; she was unwilling to irritate one who was always
gloomy and despondent enough. At last out it came. But in her soft
tones, and with her reluctant manner, shewing that she was unwilling to
say anything unpleasant, it did not seem to annoy Higgins, only to
perplex him.
“Do you remember poor Boucher saying that the Union was a tyrant? I
think he said it was the worse tyrant of all. And I remember, at the
time I agreed with him.”
It was a long while before he spoke. He was resting his head on his two
hands, and looking down into the fire, so she could not read the
expression on his face.
“I’ll not deny but what th’ Union finds it necessary to force a man into
his own good. I’ll speak truth. A man leads a dree life who’s not i’ th’
Union. But once i’ th’ Union, his interests are taken care on better nor
he could do it for himsel’, or by himsel’, for that matter. It’s the
only way working men can get their rights, by all joining together. More
the members, more chance for each one separate man having justice done
him. Government takes care o’ fools and madmen; and if any man is
inclined to do himsel’ or his neighbour a hurt, it puts a bit of a check
on him, whether he likes it or no. That’s all we do i’ th’ Union. We
can’t clap folk into prison; but we can make a man’s life so heavy to be
borne, that he’s obliged to come in, and be wise and helpful in spite of
himsel’. Boucher were a fool all along, and ne’er a worse fool than at
th’ last.”
“He did you harm?” asked Margaret.
“Aye, that did he. We had public opinion on our side, till he and his
sort began rioting and breaking laws. It were all o’er wi’ the strike
then.”
“Then would it not have been far better to have left him alone, and not
forced him to join the Union? He did you no good; and you drove him
mad.”
“Margaret,” said her father, in a low and warning tone, for he saw the
cloud gathering on Higgins’s face.
“I like her,” said Higgins, suddenly. “Hoo speaks plain out what’s in
her mind. Hoo doesn’t comprehend th’ Union for all that. It’s a great
power: it’s our only power. I ha’ read a bit o’ poetry about a plough
going o’er a daisy, as made tears come into my eyes, afore I’d other
cause for crying. But the chap ne’er stopped driving the plough, I’se
warrant, for all he was pitiful about the daisy. He’d too much
mother-wit for that. Th’ Union’s the plough, making ready the land for
harvest-time. Such as Boucher—’twould be settin’ him up too much to
liken him to a daisy; he’s liker a weed lounging over the ground—mun
just made up their mind to be put out o’ the way. I’m sore vexed wi’ him
just now. So m’appen, I dunnot speak him fair. I could go o’er him wi’ a
plough mysel’, wi’ a’ the pleasure in life.”
“Why? What has he been doing? Anything fresh?”
“Ay, to be sure. He’s ne’er out o’ mischief, that man. First of a’ he
must go raging like a mad fool, and kick up yon riot. Then he’d to go
into hiding, where he’d a been yet, if Thornton had followed him out as
I’d hoped he would ha’ done. But Thornton, having got his own purpose,
didn’t care to go on wi’ the prosecution for the riot. So Boucher slunk
back again to his house. He ne’er showed himsel’ abroad for a day or
two. He had that grace. And then, where think ye that he went? Why, to
Hampers’. Damn him! He went wi’ his mealy-mouthed face, that turns me
sick to look at, a-asking for work, though he knowed well enough the new
rule, o’ pledging themselves to give nought to th’ Unions; nought to
help the starving turn-out! Why he’d a clemmed to death, if th’ Union
had na helped him in his pinch. There he went, ossing to promise aught,
and pledge himsel’ to aught—to tell a’ he know’d on our proceedings,
the good-for-nothing Judas! But I’ll say this for Hamper, and thank him
for it at my dying day, he drove Boucher away, and would na listen to
him—ne’er a word—though folk standing by, says the traitor cried like
a babby!”
“Oh! how shocking! how pitiful!” exclaimed Margaret. “Higgins, I don’t
know you to-day. Don’t you see how you’ve made Boucher what he is, by
driving him into the Union against his will—without his heart going
with it. You have made him what he is!”
Made him what he is! What was he?
Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow, measured
sound; now forcing itself on their attention. Many voices were hushed
and low: many steps were heard, not moving onwards, at least not with
any rapidity or steadiness of motion, but as if circling round one spot.
Yes, there was one distinct, slow tramp of feet, which made itself a
clear path through the air, and reached their ears; the measured
laboured walk of men carrying a heavy burden. They were all drawn
towards the house-door by some irresistible impulse; impelled
thither—not by a poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn blast.
Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them being policemen.
They carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their shoulders, on
which lay some dead human creature; and from each side of the door there
were constant droppings. All the street turned out to see, and, seeing,
to accompany the procession, each one questioning the bearers, who
answered almost reluctantly at last, so often had they told the tale.
“We found him i’ th’ brook in the field beyond there.”
“Th’ brook!—why there’s not water enough to drown him!”
“He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was sick
enough o’ living, choose what cause he had for it.”
Higgins crept up to Margaret’s side, and said in a weak piping kind of
voice: “It’s not John Boucher? He had na spunk enough. Sure! It’s not
John Boucher! Why, they are a’ looking this way! Listen! I’ve a singing
in my head, and I cannot hear.”
They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might see the
poor drowned wretch—his glassy eyes, one half-open, staring right
upwards to the sky. Owing to the position in which he had been found
lying, his face was swollen and discoloured; besides, his skin was
stained by the water in the brook, which had been used for dyeing
purposes. The fore part of his head was bald; but the hair grew thin and
long behind, and every separate lock was a conduit for water. Through
all these disfigurements, Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to
her so sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised
face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly covered
the dead man’s countenance with her handkerchief. The eyes that saw her
do this followed her, as she turned away from her pious office, and were
thus led to the place where Nicholas Higgins stood, like one rooted to
the spot. The men spoke together, and then one of them came up to
Higgins, who would have fain shrunk back into his house.
“Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun go tell the wife. Do it gently, man,
but do it quick, for we canna leave him here long.”
“I canna go,” said Higgins. “Dunnot ask me. I canna face her.”
“Thou knows her best,” said the man. “We’n done a deal in bringing him
here—thou take thy share.”
“I canna do it,” said Higgins. “I’m welly felled wi’ seeing him. We
wasn’t friends; and now he’s dead.”
“Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one mun though. It’s a dree
task; but it’s a chance, every minute, as she doesn’t hear on it in some
rougher way nor a person going to make her let on by degrees, as it
were.”
“Papa, do you go,” said Margaret, in a low voice.
“If I could—if I had time to think of what I had better say; but all at
once——” Margaret saw that her father was indeed unable. He was
trembling from head to foot.
“I will go,” said she.
“Bless yo’ miss, it will be a kind act; for she’s been but a sickly sort
o’ body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on her.”
Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise, as of
many little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no reply; indeed,
she doubted if she was heard, and as every moment of delay made her
recoil from her task more and more, she opened the door and went in,
shutting it after her, and even, unseen by the woman, fastening the
bolt.
Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of the
ill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been untouched for
days by any effort at cleanliness.