“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 of 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 thanken your daughter theer for her deeds o’ love to my poor wench. I ne’er could find th’ words. I’se have to begin to 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’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 anyone 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 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 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 turnout, 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, showing 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
