'The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.'SHELLEY. At the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their walk to see Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both were reminded of their recent loss, by a strange kind of shyness in their new habiliments, and in the fact that it was the first time, for many weeks, that they had deliberately gone out together. They drew very close to each other in unspoken sympathy. Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner: but he had not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon his hand, his arm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he saw them, though Margaret could read the welcome in his eye. 'Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's welly out,' said he, giving it a vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He was rather disorderly, to be sure, with a black unshaven beard of several days' growth, making his pale face look yet paler, and a jacket which would have been all the better for patching. 'We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just after dinner-time,'
said Margaret. 'We have had our sorrow too, since we saw you,' said Mr. Hale. 'Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just now; I reckon, my dinner hour stretches all o'er the day; yo're pretty sure of finding me.' 'Are you out of work?' asked Margaret. 'Ay,' he replied shortly. Then, after a moment's silence, he added, looking up for the first time: 'I'm not wanting brass. Dunno yo' think it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her pillow, ready to slip into my hand, last moment, and Mary is fustian-cutting. But I'm out o' work a' the same.' 'We owe Mary some money,' said Mr. Hale, before Margaret's sharp pressure on his arm could arrest the words. 'If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors. I'll bide inside these four walls, and she'll bide out. That's a'.' 'But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,' began Mr. Hale again. 'I ne'er thanked yo'r daughter theer for her deeds o' love to my poor wench.
I ne'er could find th' words. I'se have to begin and try now, if yo' start making an ado about what little Mary could sarve yo'.' 'Is it because of the strike you're out of work?' asked Margaret gently. 'Strike's ended. It's o'er for this time. I'm out o' work because I ne'er asked for it. And I ne'er asked for it, because good words is scarce, and bad words is plentiful.' He was in a mood to take a surly pleasure in giving answers that were like riddles. But Margaret saw that he would like to be asked for the explanation. 'And good words are--?' 'Asking for work. I reckon them's almost the best words that men can 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'r way of being true to yo'r 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 mappen 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 lust 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. Hamper's--that's where I worked--makes their men pledge 'emselves they'll not give a penny to help th' Union or keep turnouts 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 making 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 workman any good. And I've been a turn-out, and known what it were 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?'
