CHAPTER XXXVI.

UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH.

“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 sorrows 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 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

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.

Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were

so dry, and the children’s noise completely prevented her from being

heard. She tried again.

“How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve chance o’ being well,” said she querulously. “I’m left alone to

manage these childer, and nought for to give ’em for to keep ’em quiet.

John should na ha’ left me, and me so poorly.”

“How long is it since he went away?”

“Four days sin’. No one would give him work here, and he’d to go on

tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha’ been back afore this, or sent

me some word if he’d getten work. He might——”

“Oh, don’t blame him,” said Margaret. “He felt it deeply, I’m sure——”

“Willto’ hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!” addressing

herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year

old. She apologetically continued to Margaret, “He’s always mithering me

for ‘daddy’ and ‘butty’; and I ha’ no butties to give him, and daddy’s

away, and forgotten us a’, I think. He’s his father’s darling, he is,”

said she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her

knee, she began kissing it fondly.

Margaret laid her hand on the woman’s arm to arrest her attention. Their

eyes met.

“Poor little fellow!” said Margaret, slowly; “he _was_ his father’s

darling.”

“He _is_ his father’s darling,” said the woman, rising hastily, and

standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment

or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low growling tone, gathering in

wildness as she went on: “He _is_ his father’s darling, I say. Poor folk

can love their childer as well as rich. Why dunno yo’ speak? Why dun yo’

stare at me wi’ your great pitiful eyes? Where’s John?” Weak as she was,

she shook Margaret to force out an answer. “Oh, my God!” said she,

understanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank back into the

chair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.

“He loved him,” said she.

“Ay,” said the woman, shaking her head, “he loved us a’. We had some one

to love us once. It’s a long time ago; but when he were in life and with

us he did love us, he did. He loved this babby m’appen the best on us;

but he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes

agone. Are yo’ sure he’s dead?” said she, trying to get up. “If it’s

only that he’s ill and like to die, they may bring him round yet. I’m

but an ailing creature mysel’—I’ve been ailing this long time.”

“But he is dead—he is drowned!”

“Folk are brought round after they’re dead-drowned. Whatten was I

thinking of, to sit still when I should be stirring mysel’? Here, whisth

thee, child—whisth thee! tak’ this, tak’ aught to play wi’, but dunnot

cry while my heart’s breaking! Oh, where is my strength gone to? Oh

John—husband!”

Margaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms. She sate

down in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon her knees, her head

lying on Margaret’s shoulder. The other children, clustered together in

affright, began to understand the mystery of the scene; but the ideas

came slowly, for their brains were dull and languid of perception. They

set up such a cry of despair as they guessed the truth, that Margaret

knew not how to bear it. Johnny’s cry was loudest of them all, though he

knew not why he cried, poor little fellow.

The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret’s arms. Margaret heard a

noise at the door.

“Open it. Open it quick,” said she to the eldest child. “It’s bolted;

make no noise—be very still. Oh, papa, let them go upstairs very softly

and carefully, and perhaps she will not hear them. She has

fainted—that’s all.”

“It’s as well for her, poor creature,” said a woman following in the

wake of the bearers of the dead. “But yo’re not fit to hold her. Stay,

I’ll run fetch a pillow, and we’ll let her down easy on the floor.”

This helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret; she was evidently

a stranger to the house, a new-comer in the district, indeed; but she

was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she was no longer needed;

and that it would be better, perhaps, to set an example of clearing the

house, which was filled with idle, if sympathising gazers.

She looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He was not there. So she spoke to

the woman who had taken the lead in placing Mrs. Boucher on the floor.

“Can you give all these people a hint that they had better leave in

quietness? So that when she comes round, she could only find one or two

that she knows about her. Papa, will you speak to the men, and get them

to go away. She cannot breathe, poor thing, with this crowd about her.”

Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing her face with

vinegar; but in a few minutes she was surprised at the gush of fresh

air. She looked round, and saw a smile pass between her father and the

woman.

“What is it?” asked she.

“Only our good friend here,” replied her father, “hit on a capital

expedient for clearing the place.”

“I bid ’em begone, and each take a child with ’em, and to mind that they

were orphans, and their mother a widow. It was who could do most, and

the childer are sure of a bellyful to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo

know how he died?”

“No,” said Margaret; “I could not tell her all at once.”

“Hoo mun be told because of th’ Inquest. See! Hoo’s coming round; shall

you or I do it? or m’appen your father would be best?”

“No; you, you,” said Margaret.

They awaited her perfect recovery in silence. Then the neighbour woman

sat down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher’s head and shoulders on her

lap.

“Neighbour,” said she, “your man is dead. Guess yo’ how he died?”

“He were drowned,” said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry for the

first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.

“He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o’ aught on

earth. He thought God could na be harder than men; m’appen not so hard;

m’appen as tender as a mother; m’appen tenderer. I’m not saying he did

right, and I’m not saying he did wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor

mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things.”

“He has left me alone wi’ a’ these children!” moaned the widow, less

distressed at the manner of the death than Margaret expected; but it was

of a piece with her helpless character to feel his loss as principally

affecting herself and her children.

“Not alone,” said Mr. Hale, solemnly. “Who is with you? Who will take up

your cause?” The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked at the new

speaker, of whose presence she had not been aware till then.

“Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?” continued he.

“But I’ve getten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight years of

age. I’m not meaning for to doubt His power, sir,—only it needs a deal

o’ trust”; and she began to cry afresh.

“Hoo’ll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir,” said the neighbour.

“Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at her heart. I’m sorry

they took the babby.”

“I’ll go for it,” said Margaret. And in a few minutes she returned,

carrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, and his hands loaded

with treasures in the shape of shells, and bits of crystal, and the head

of a plaster figure. She placed him on his mother’s arms.

“There!” said the woman, “now you go. They’ll cry together, and comfort

together, better nor any one but a child can do. I’ll stop with her as

long as I’m needed, and if you come to-morrow, you’ can have a deal o’

wise talk with her, that she’s not up to to-day.”

As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused at

Higgins’s closed door.

“Shall we go in?” asked her father. “I was thinking of him too.”

They knocked. There was no answer, so they tried the door. It was

bolted, but they thought they heard him moving within.

“Nicholas!” said Margaret. There was no answer, and they might have gone

away, believing the house to be empty, if there had not been some

accidental fall, as of a book, within.

“Nicholas!” said Margaret again. “It is only us. Won’t you let us come

in?”

“No,” said he. “I spoke as plain as I could, ’bout using words, when I

bolted th’ door. Let me be, this day.”

Mr. Hale would have urged their desire, but Margaret placed her finger

on his lips.

“I don’t wonder at it,” said she. “I myself long to be alone. It seems

the only thing to do one good after a day like this.”