"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 mappen 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 did '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 mappen 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; mappen not so hard; mappen as tender as a mother; mappen 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."

At the time arranged, they set out on their walk to see Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both felt a strange kind of shyness in their mourning clothes, and drew close to each other in unspoken sympathy.
Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner, leaning his head upon his hand, his arm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he saw them.
'Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's nearly out,' said he, giving it a vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He was rather disorderly, to be sure, with several days' black growth of beard making his pale face look yet paler, and a well-worn jacket.
'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; and my dinner hour stretches all day long; 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. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her pillow ready to give me, and Mary is fustian-cutting.'
'We owe Mary some money,' said Mr. Hale.
'If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors.'
'But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,' began Mr. Hale again.
'I ne'er thanked your daughter there for her deeds o' love to my poor wench. I ne'er could find th' words.'
'Is it because of the strike you're out of work?' asked Margaret gently.
'Strike's ended. 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. "Gi' me work" means "and I'll do it like a man." Them's good words. And bad words is saying "Aha, my fine chap! Yo've been true to your order, and I'll be true to mine. Yo've been a poor 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. I could 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?'
Higgins uttered 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.'
'You are quite right. I am a private tutor.'
'So folk pay yo' for teaching them?'
'Yes,' replied Mr. Hale, smiling.
'And them that pays yo', dun they tell yo' what to do wi' the money they give you?'
'No; to be sure not!'
'They dunnot say, "Yo' may have a brother, or a dear friend, who needs this brass; but yo' mun promise not to give it to him, or we'll just leave off dealing with yo'." They dunnot say that?'
'No: to be sure not! I would not submit to that.'
'Now yo've got it,' said Nicholas Higgins. 'Hamper's - where I worked - makes their men pledge they'll not give a penny to help th' Union or keep turnouts fro' clemming. They make nobbut liars and hypocrites. And that's a less sin, to my mind, than making men's hearts so hard that they'll not do a kindness to them as needs it. But I'll ne'er forswear mysel'. 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 who needs it. Consequence is, I dunnot see where I'm to get a shilling.'
'Is that rule in force at all the mills?' asked Margaret.
'I cannot say. It's a new regulation at ourn. But by-and-by they'll find out, tyrants makes liars.'
There was a little pause. Margaret was hesitating whether to say what was in her mind; she was unwilling to irritate one who was already gloomy enough. At last out it came. But in her soft tones 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 worst tyrant of all.'
It was a long while before he spoke. He was looking down into the fire, so she could not read the expression on his face.
'I'll speak truth. A man leads a hard life who's not i' th' Union. But once i' the' Union, his interests are taken care on better nor he could do it for himsel'. It's the only way working men can get their rights, by all joining together. More the members, more chance for each man having justice done him. If any man is inclined to do himsel' or his neighbour a hurt, it puts a check on him. 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 that he's obliged to come in, and be wise in spite of himself. Boucher were a fool all along, and ne'er a worse fool than at th' last. 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 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.
'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 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. But the chap ne'er stopped driving the plough, for all he pitied the daisy. He'd too much sense for that. Th' Union's the plough, making ready the land for harvest-time. Such as Boucher - he's no daisy; he's liker a weed lounging over the ground - they must make up their mind to be put out o' the way. I'm sore vexed wi' him just now. I could go o'er him wi' a plough mysel'.'
'Why? What has he been doing?'
'He's ne'er out o' mischief, that man. First he must go raging like a mad fool, and kick up yon riot. Then he'd to go into hiding. And when Thornton didn't follow him nor go on wi' the prosecution, Boucher slunk back again to his house. And then, where think ye that he went? Why, to Hamper's. Damn him! He went wi' his mealy-mouthed face, asking for work, though he knowed well enough the new rule, o' pledging to give nought to th' Unions! Why, he'd a clemmed to death, if th' Union had na helped him. The good-for-nothing Judas! But I'll say this for Hamper, he drove Boucher away, and would na listen to him, though folk says the traitor cried like a babby!'
'Oh! how shocking! how pitiful!' exclaimed Margaret. 'Higgins, I don't know you today. Don't you see how you've made Boucher what he is, by driving him into the Union against his will!'
Made him what he is! What was he?
Gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow, measured sound, forcing itself on their attention. Many voices were hushed and low: there was a distinct, slow tramp of feet, the laboured walk of men carrying a heavy burden. They were all drawn towards the house-door by some impulse.
Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them policemen. Upon their shoulders they carried a door, taken off its hinges, on which lay some dead human creature; and the door was dripping. All the street turned out to see the procession, questioning the bearers, who answered reluctantly at last.
'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 o' living.'
Higgins said in a weak, high voice: 'It's not John Boucher? He had na pluck enough. Sure! It's not John Boucher! I've a singing in my head, and cannot hear.'
They put the door down carefully, and all might see the poor drowned wretch - his glassy eyes staring upwards to the sky. His face was swollen and discoloured; his skin was stained by the water in the brook, which had been used for dyeing purposes. Water trickled through his hair.
Through all these disfigurements, Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to be so sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted face, that she instinctively went forwards and softly covered the dead man's countenance with her handkerchief. Nicholas Higgins stood rooted to the spot. The men spoke together, and then one of them came up to Higgins.
'Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou must 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.
'I canna do it,' said Higgins. 'I'm felled wi' seeing him.'
'Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one must, though. It's a dree task; but it's a chance, every minute, that she'll hear on it some rougher way.'
'Papa, you go,' said Margaret, in a low voice.
'If I had time to think of what to say; but all at once-' Margaret saw that her father was trembling.
'I will go,' said she.
'Bless yo', miss, it will be a kind act; for she's been sickly, I hear, and few hereabouts know her.'
Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise of many little children, that she could hear no reply; indeed, she doubted if she was heard. Before she could recoil from her task, she opened the door and went in.
Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair by the dirty fireplace; it looked as if the house had not been cleaned for days.
Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and the children's noise so great. She tried again.
'How are you, Mrs. Boucher? Very poorly, I'm afraid.'
'I've no chance o' being well,' said she querulously. 'I'm left alone to manage these childer, and no food to keep 'em quiet. John should na ha' left me.'
'How long is it since he went away?'
'Four days. No one would give him work here, and he'd to go on tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha' sent me some word.'
'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!' she said, in no gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year old. She apologised to Margaret. 'He's always mithering me for "daddy" and "butty;" and I ha' no butties to give him, and daddy's forgotten us, I think. He's his father's darling, he is.' With a sudden turn of mood, she began kissing the child fondly.
Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm. 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 to face her. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low tone, gathering in wildness: '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? Where's John? Oh, my God!' She sank back into the chair. Margaret lifted 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 someone to love us once. It's a long time ago; but he did love us, he did. He loved this babby the best; but he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes ago. Are yo' sure he's dead?' said she, trying to get up.
'He is dead - drowned!'
'Folk are brought round after they're dead-drowned. Here, whisth thee, child - whisth thee! 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 sat down and held the woman, her head lying on Margaret's shoulder. The other children, clustered together in affright, began to slowly understand the mystery of the scene; for their brains were dull and languid. Then they set up such a cry of despair that Margaret knew not how to bear it. Johnnie's cry was loudest of them all, though he knew not why he cried, poor little fellow.
As she held the quivering mother, Margaret heard a noise at the door.
'Open it quick,' said she to the eldest child. 'Make no noise.' Seeing her father with the other men, she told him, 'Oh, papa, let them go upstairs very softly, and perhaps she will not hear them. She has fainted.'
'It's as well for her, poor creature,' said a woman following the bearers of the dead. '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 a new-comer in the district, but so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she was no longer needed; and that it would be better, perhaps, to leave and 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 helped in placing Mrs. Boucher on the floor.
'Can you give these people a hint that they had better leave quietly? When she comes round, she should only find one or two that she knows. Papa, will you ask the men 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 felt a gust of fresh air. She looked round, and saw a smile pass between her father and the woman.
'What is it?' asked she.
'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 fatherless, and their mother a widow. The childer are sure of a bellyful today, and of kindness too. Does hoo know how he died?'
'No,' said Margaret; 'I could not tell her all.'
'Hoo must be told. See! Hoo's coming round; shall you or I do it? Or your father?'
'No; you,' said Margaret.
As Mrs. Boucher recovered, 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.
'He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o' aught on earth. He thought God could na be harder than men; happen as tender as a mother, or 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.'
'He has left me alone wi' a' these children!' moaned the widow, less distressed at the manner of the death than Margaret expected.
'Not alone,' said Mr. Hale, solemnly. 'Who is with you? Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?'
'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 tomorrow, 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 the head of a plaster figure. She placed him in his mother's arms.
'There!' said the woman, 'now you go. They'll cry together, and comfort together. I'll stop with her as long as I'm needed, and if yo' come tomorrow, yo' can talk with her.'
As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused at Higgins's closed door.
'Shall we go in?' asked her father.
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. 'Nicholas! It is only us. Won't you let us in?'
'No,' said he. 'Let me be, this day.'
Mr. Hale would have protested, but Margaret placed her finger on his lips.
'I don't wonder at it,' said she. 'I myself long to be alone, after a day like this.'


"Nay, I have done; you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so clearly I myself am free." DRAYTON.
Margaret shut herself up in her own room, after she had quitted Mrs. Thornton. She began to walk backwards and forwards, in her old habitual way of showing agitation; but, then, remembering that in that slightly-built house every step was heard from one room to another, she sate down until she heard Mrs. Thornton go safely out of the house. She forced herself to recollect all the conversation that had passed between them; speech by speech, she compelled her memory to go through with it. At the end, she rose up, and said to herself, in a melancholy tone:
"At any rate, her words do not touch me; they fall off from me; for I am innocent of all the motives she attributes to me. But still, it is hard to think that any one--any woman--can believe all this of another so easily. It is hard and sad. Where I have done wrong, she does not accuse me--she does not know. He never told her: I might have known he would not!"
She lifted up her head, as if she took pride in any delicacy of feeling which Mr. Thornton had shown. Then, as a new thought came across her, she pressed her hands tightly together:
"He, too, must take poor Frederick for some lover." (She blushed as the word passed through her mind.) "I see it now. It is not merely that he knows of my falsehood, but he believes that some one else cares for me; and that I---- Oh dear!--oh dear! What shall I do? What do I mean? Why do I care what he thinks, beyond the mere loss of his good opinion as regards my telling the truth or not? I cannot tell. But I am very miserable! Oh, how unhappy this last year has been! I have passed out of childhood into old age. I have had no youth--no womanhood; the hopes of womanhood have closed for me--for I shall never marry; and I anticipate cares and sorrows just as if I were an old woman, and with the same tearful spirit. I am weary of this continual call upon me for strength. I could bear up for papa; because that is a natural, pious duty. And I think I could bear up against--at any rate, I could have the energy to resent, Mrs. Thornton's unjust, impertinent suspicions. But it is hard to feel how completely he must misunderstand me. What has happened to make me so morbid to-day? I do not know. I only know I cannot help it. I must give way sometimes. No, I will not though," said she, springing to her feet. "I will not--I _will_ not think of myself and my own position. I won't examine into my own feelings. It would be of no use now. Some time, if I live to be an old woman, I may sit over the fire, and looking into the embers, see the life that might have been."
All this time she was hastily putting on her things to go out, only stopping from time to time to wipe her eyes, with an impatience of gesture at the tears that would come again, in spite of all her bravery.
"I dare say there's many a woman makes as sad a mistake as I have done, and only finds it out too late. And how proudly and impertinently I spoke to him that day! But I did not know then. It has come upon me little by little, and I don't know where it began. Now I won't give way. I shall find it difficult to behave in the same way to him, with this miserable consciousness upon me; but I will be very calm and very quiet, and say very little. But, to be sure, I may not see him; he keeps out of our way evidently. That would be worse than all. And yet no wonder that he avoids me, believing what he must about me."
She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying to drown reflection by swiftness of motion.
As she stood on the door-step, at her return, her father came up:
"Good girl!" said he. "You've been to Mrs. Boucher's. I was just meaning to go there, if I had time, before dinner."
"No, papa; I have not," said Margaret, reddening. "I never thought about her. But I will go directly after dinner; I will go while you are taking your nap."
Accordingly Margaret went. Mrs. Boucher was very ill; really ill--not merely ailing. The kind and sensible neighbour, who had come in the other day, seemed to have taken charge of everything. Some of the children were gone to the neighbours. Mary Higgins had come for the three youngest at dinner-time; and since then Nicholas had gone for the doctor. He had not come as yet; Mrs. Boucher was dying; and there was nothing to do but wait. Margaret thought that she should like to hear his opinion, and that she could not do better than go and see the Higginses in the meantime. She might then possibly hear whether Nicholas had been able to make his application to Mr. Thornton.
She found Nicholas busily engaged in making a penny spin on the dresser, for the amusement of three little children, who were clinging to him in a fearless manner. He, as well as they, was smiling at a good long spin; and Margaret thought, that the happy look of interest in his occupation was a good sign. When the penny stopped spinning, "lile Johnnie" began to cry.
"Come to me," said Margaret, taking him off the dresser, and holding him in her arms; she held her watch to his ear, while she asked Nicholas if he had seen Mr. Thornton.
The look on his face changed instantly.
"Ay!" said he. "I've seen and heerd too much on him."
"He refused you, then?" said Margaret, sorrowfully.
"To be sure. I knew he'd do it all along. It's no good expecting marcy at the hands o' them measters. Yo'r a stranger and a foreigner, and aren't likely to know their ways; but I knowed it."
"I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry? He did not speak to you as Hamper did, did he?"
"He weren't o'er-civil!" said Nicholas, spinning the penny again, as much for his own amusement as for that of the children. "Never yo' fret, I'm only where I was. I'll go on tramp to-morrow. I gave him as good as I got. I telled him, I'd not that good opinion on him that I'd ha' come a second time of mysel'; but yo'd advised me for to come, and I were beholden to yo'."
"You told him I sent you?"
"I dunno, if I ca'd yo' by your name. I dunnot think I did. I said a woman who knew no better had advised me for to come and see if there was a soft place in his heart."
"And he--?" asked Margaret.
"Said I were to tell yo' to mind yo'r own business.--That's the longest spin yet, my lads.--And them's civil words to what he used to me. But ne'er mind. We're but where we was; and I'll break stones on the road afore I let these little uns clem."
Margaret put the struggling Johnnie out of her arms, back into his former place on the dresser.
"I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am disappointed in him."
There was a slight noise behind her. Both she and Nicholas turned round at the same moment, and there stood Mr. Thornton, with a look of displeased surprise upon his face. Obeying her swift impulse, Margaret passed out before him, saying not a word, only bowing low to hide the sudden paleness that she felt had come over her face. He bent equally low in return, and then closed the door after her. As she hurried to Mrs. Boucher's, she heard the clang, and it seemed to fill up the measure of her mortification. He too was annoyed to find her there. He had tenderness in his heart--"a soft place," as Nicholas Higgins called it; but he had some pride in concealing it; he kept it very sacred and safe, and was jealous of every circumstance that tried to gain admission. But if he dreaded exposure of his tenderness, he was equally desirous that all men should recognise his justice; and he felt that he had been unjust in giving so scornful a hearing to any one who had waited, with humble patience, for five hours, to speak to him. That the man had spoken saucily to him when he had the opportunity, was nothing to Mr. Thornton. He rather liked him for it; and he was conscious of his own irritability of temper at the time, which probably made them both quits. It was the five hours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. He had not five hours to spare, himself; but one hour--two hours, of his hard penetrating intellectual, as well as bodily labour, did he give up to going about collecting evidence as to the truth of Higgins's story, the nature of his character, the tenor of his life. He tried not to be, but was convinced that all that Higgins had said was true. And then the conviction went in, as if by some spell, and touched the latent tenderness of his heart; the patience of the man, the simple generosity of the motive (for he had learnt about the quarrel between Boucher and Higgins), made him forget entirely the mere reasonings of justice, and overleap them by a diviner instinct. He came to tell Higgins he would give him work; and he was more annoyed to find Margaret there than by hearing her last words; for then he understood that she was the woman who had urged Higgins to come to him; and he dreaded the admission of any thought of her, as a motive to what he was doing solely because it was right.
"So that was the lady you spoke of as a woman?" said he indignantly to Higgins. "You might have told me who she was."
"And then, maybe, yo'd have spoken of her more civil than yo' did; yo'd getten a mother who might ha' kept yo'r tongue in check when yo' were talking o' women being at the root of all the plagues."
"Of course you told that to Miss Hale?"
"In coorse I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. I telled her she weren't to meddle again in aught that concerned yo'."
"Whose children are those--yours?" Mr. Thornton had a pretty good notion whose they were, from what he had heard; but he felt awkward in turning the conversation round from this unpromising beginning.
"They're not mine, and they are mine."
"They are the children you spoke of to me this morning?"
"When yo' said," replied Higgins, turning round, with ill-smothered fierceness, "that my story might be true or might not, but it were a very unlikely one. Measter, I've not forgotten."
Mr. Thornton was silent for a moment; then he said: "No more have I. I remember what I said. I spoke to you about those children in a way I had no business to. I did not believe you. I could not have taken care of another man's children myself, if he had acted towards me as I hear Boucher did towards you. But I know now you spoke truth. I beg your pardon."
Higgins did not turn round, or immediately respond to this. But when he did speak, it was in a softened tone, although the words were gruff enough.
"Yo've no business to go prying into what happened between Boucher and me. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough."
"So it is. Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask."
Higgins's obstinacy wavered, recovered strength, and stood firm. He would not speak. Mr. Thornton would not ask again. Higgins's eye fell on the children.
"Yo've called me impudent, and a liar, and a mischief-maker, and yo' might ha' said wi' some truth, as I were now and then given to drink. An', I ha' called you a tyrant, an' an oud bull dog, and a hard, cruel master; that's where it stands. But for th' childer, Measter, do yo' think we can e'er get on together?"
"Well!" said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, "it was not my proposal that we should go together. But there's one comfort on your own showing. We neither of us can think much worse of the other than we do now."
"That's true," said Higgins, reflectively. "I've been thinking ever sin' I saw you, what a marcy it were yo' did na take me on, for that I ne'er saw a man whom I could less abide. But that's maybe been a hasty judgment; and work's work to such as me. So, measter, I'll come; and what's more, I thank yo'; and that's a deal fro' me," said he, more frankly, suddenly turning round and facing Mr. Thornton fully for the first time.
"And this is a deal from me," said Mr. Thornton, giving Higgins's hand a good grip. "Now mind you come sharp to your time," continued he, resuming the master. "I'll have no laggards at my mill. What fines we have, we keep pretty sharply. And the first time I catch you making mischief, off you go. So now you know where you are."
"Yo' spoke of my wisdom this morning. I reckon I may bring it wi' me; or would yo' rayther have me 'bout my brains?"
"'Bout your brains if you use them for meddling with my business; with your brains if you can keep to your own."
"I shall need a deal o' brains to settle where my business ends and yo'rs begins."
"Your business has not begun yet, and mine stands still for me. So good afternoon."
Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher's door, Margaret came out of it. She did not see him; and he followed her for several yards, admiring her light and easy walk, and her tall and graceful figure. But, suddenly, this simple emotion of pleasure was tainted, poisoned by jealousy. He wished to overtake her, and speak to her, to see how she would receive him, now she must know he was aware of some other attachment. He wished too, but of this wish he was rather ashamed, that she should know that he had justified her wisdom in sending Higgins to him to ask for work, and had repented him of his morning's decision. He came up to her. She started.
"Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were rather premature in expressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on."
"I am glad of it," said she coldly.
"He tells me, he repeated to you, what I said this morning about--," Mr. Thornton hesitated. Margaret took it up:
"About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to express your opinion, which was a very correct one, I have no doubt. But," she went on a little more eagerly, "Higgins did not quite tell you the exact truth." The word "truth," reminded her of her own untruth, and she stopped short, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.
Mr. Thornton at first was puzzled to account for her silence; and then he remembered the lie she had told, and all that was foregone. "The exact truth!" said he. "Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have given up hoping for it. Miss Hale, have you no explanation to give me? You must perceive what I cannot but think."
Margaret was silent. She was wondering whether an explanation of any kind would be consistent with her loyalty to Frederick.
"Nay" said he, "I will ask no farther. I may be putting temptation in your way. At present, believe me, your secret is safe with me. But you run great risks, allow me to say, in being so indiscreet. I am only speaking as a friend of your father's: if I had any other thought or hope, of course that is at an end. I am quite disinterested."
"I am aware of that," said Margaret, forcing herself to speak in an indifferent, careless way. "I am aware of what I must appear to you, but the secret is another person's, and I cannot explain it without doing him harm."
"I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman's secrets," he said, with growing anger. "My own interest in you is--simply that of a friend. You may not believe me, Miss Hale, but it is--in spite of the persecution I'm afraid I threatened you with at one time--but that is all given up; all passed away. You believe me, Miss Hale?"
"Yes," said Margaret, quietly and sadly.
"Then, really, I don't see any reason for us to go on walking together. I thought, perhaps, you might have had something to say, but I see we are nothing to each other. If you're quite convinced, that any foolish passion on my part is entirely over, I wish you good afternoon." He walked off very hastily.
"What can he mean?" thought Margaret,--"what could he mean by speaking so, as if I were always thinking that he cared for me, when I know he does not; he cannot. His mother will have said all those cruel things about me to him. But I won't care for him. I surely am mistress enough of myself to control this wild, strange, miserable feeling, which tempted me even to betray my own dear Frederick, so that I might but regain his good opinion--the good opinion of a man who takes such pains to tell me that I am nothing to him. Come! poor little heart! be cheery and brave. We'll be a great deal to one another, if we are thrown off and left desolate."
Her father was almost startled by her merriment this morning. She talked incessantly, and forced her natural humour to an unusual pitch; and if there was a tinge of bitterness in much of what she said; if her accounts of the old Harley Street set were a little sarcastic, her father could not bear to check her, as he would have done at another time--for he was glad to see her shake off her cares. In the middle of the evening, she was called down to speak to Mary Higgins; and when she came back, Mr. Hale imagined that he saw traces of tears on her cheeks. But that could not be, for she brought good news--that Higgins had got work at Mr. Thornton's mill. Her spirits were damped, at any rate, and she found it very difficult to go on talking at all, much more in the wild way that she had done. For some days her spirits varied strangely; and her father was beginning to be anxious about her, when news arrived from one or two quarters that promised some change and variety for her. Mr. Hale received a letter from Mr. Bell, in which that gentleman volunteered a visit to them; and Mr. Hale imagined that the promised society of his old Oxford friend would give as agreeable a turn to Margaret's ideas as it did to his own. Margaret tried to take an interest in what pleased her father; but she was too languid to care about any Mr. Bell, even though he were twenty times her godfather. She was more roused by a letter from Edith, full of sympathy about her aunt's death; full of details about herself, her husband, and child; and at the end saying, that as the climate did not suit the baby, and as Mrs. Shaw was talking of returning to England, she thought it probable that Captain Lennox might sell out, and that they might all go and live again in the old Harley Street house; which, however, would seem very incomplete without Margaret. Margaret yearned after that old house, and the placid tranquility of that well-ordered, monotonous life. She had found it occasionally tiresome while it lasted; but since then she had been buffeted about, and felt so exhausted by this recent struggle with herself, that she thought that even stagnation would be a rest and a refreshment. So she began to look towards a long visit to the Lennoxes, on their return to England, as to a point--no, not of hope--but of leisure, in which she could regain her power and command over herself. At present it seemed to her as if all subjects tended towards Mr. Thornton; as if she could not forget him with all her endeavours. If she went to see the Higginses, she heard of him there; her father had resumed their readings together, and quoted his opinions perpetually; even Mr. Bell's visit brought his tenant's name upon the tapis; for he wrote word, that he believed he must be occupied some great part of his time with Mr. Thornton, as a new lease was in preparation, and the terms of it must be agreed upon.

After leaving Mrs. Thornton, Margaret shut herself up in her room. She began to walk backwards and forwards, but then, remembering that in that house every step was heard from one room to another, she sat down and forced herself to recollect the conversation. She said to herself:
'Her words do not touch me; for I am innocent of the motives she attributes to me. But still, it is hard to think that any woman can believe all this of another so easily. It is hard and sad. Where I have done wrong, she does not accuse me. He never told her: I might have known he would not!'
She lifted up her head, as if she took pride in Mr. Thornton's delicacy of feeling. Then, at a new thought, she pressed her hands tightly together.
'He, too, must take poor Frederick for some lover. I see it now. It is not merely that he knows of my falsehood, but he believes that I - Oh dear! Oh dear! What shall I do? Why do I care what he thinks? I cannot tell. But I am very miserable! Oh, how unhappy this last year has been! I have passed out of childhood into old age. The hopes of womanhood have closed for me - I shall never marry. I feel as worn-down and fearful as an old woman; I am weary of this continual call upon me for strength. I could bear up for papa; and I think I could bear up against Mrs. Thornton's unjust suspicions. But it is hard to feel how completely he must misunderstand me. Why am I so morbid today? I do not know. I only know I cannot help it. I must give way sometimes. No, I will not, though,' said she, springing to her feet. 'I will not think of myself. I won't examine my own feelings. It would be of no use. If I live to be an old woman, then I may sit over the fire, and looking into the embers, see the life that might have been.'
All this time, she was hastily putting on her things to go out, only stopping to wipe her eyes impatiently.
'I dare say, there's many a woman makes as sad a mistake as I have done, and only finds it out too late. And how proudly I spoke to him that day! But I did not know then. It has come upon me little by little, and I don't know where it began. I shall find it difficult to behave in the same way to him; but I will be very calm, and say little. But, to be sure, I may not see him; he keeps out of our way. No wonder, believing what he must about me.'
She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying to drown reflection by walking swiftly. On her return, her father met her on the door-step.
'Good girl!' said he. 'You've been to Mrs. Boucher's. I was just meaning to go there.'
'No, papa; I have not,' said Margaret, reddening. 'I never thought about her. But I will go directly after dinner.'
Accordingly she went. Mrs. Boucher was very ill. The kind and sensible neighbour, who had come in the other day, seemed to have taken charge of everything. Some of the children were gone to the neighbours. Mary Higgins had come for the three youngest at dinner-time; and Nicholas had gone for the doctor. Mrs. Boucher was dying; and there was nothing to do but to wait. Margaret thought that she had better go and visit the Higginses in the meantime. She might hear whether Nicholas had been able to see Mr. Thornton.
She found Nicholas busy amusing the three little children, by spinning pennies. He, and they, were smiling at a good long spin; and Margaret thought that was a good sign. When the penny stopped spinning, little Johnnie began to cry.
'Come to me,' said Margaret, holding him in her arms and putting her watch to his ear, while she asked Nicholas if he had seen Mr. Thornton.
The look on his face changed instantly.
'Ay!' said he. 'I've seen and heerd too much on him.'
'He refused you, then?' said Margaret, sorrowfully.
'To be sure. I knew he would. It's no good expecting marcy at the hands o' them measters.'
'I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry?'
'He weren't o'er-civil!' said Nicholas, spinning the penny again. 'Never yo' fret, I'm only where I was. I'll go on tramp tomorrow. I gave him as good as I got. I telled him, I'd only come because yo'd advised me to, and I were beholden to yo'.'
'You told him I sent you?'
'I dunno' if I said your name. I dunnot think I did. I said, a woman who knew no better had advised me for to come and see if there was a soft place in his heart.'
'And he-?'
'Said I were to tell yo' to mind your own business. That's the longest spin yet, my lads. - But ne'er mind. We're but where we was; and I'll break stones on th' road afore I let these little uns clem.'
'I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's,' said Margaret. 'I am disappointed in him.'
There was a slight noise behind her. They both turned, and there stood Mr. Thornton, with a look of displeased surprise upon his face. Swiftly Margaret went out past him, saying not a word, only bowing low to hide her face. He bent equally low in return, and then closed the door after her.
He was annoyed to find her there. He had tenderness in his heart; but he kept it very sacred and safe. However, if he dreaded exposure of his tenderness, he equally wished that men should recognise his justice; and he felt that he had been unjust in giving so scornful a hearing to anyone who had waited patiently for five hours to speak to him. That the man had then spoken saucily was nothing to Mr. Thornton. He rather liked him for it; and he was conscious of his own irritability, which probably made them quits. It was the five hours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. He spent two hours himself going about collecting evidence of the truth of Higgins's story and the nature of his character. He tried not to be, but was convinced that all that Higgins had said was true.
And then the conviction touched the latent tenderness of his heart. The man's patience and generosity made him forget entirely the mere reasonings of justice. He came to tell Higgins he would give him work; and he was annoyed to find Margaret there because then he understood that she was the woman who had urged Higgins to come to him; and he was doing this not because of her, but solely because it was right.
'So that was the lady you spoke of?' said he indignantly to Higgins. 'You might have told me who she was.'
'And then, maybe, yo'd ha' spoken of her more civil than yo' did when yo' were talking o' women being at the root o' all plagues.'
'Of course you told that to Miss Hale?'
'In coorse I did. Leastways, I telled her she weren't to meddle again in aught that concerned yo'.'
'Whose children are those - yours?'
'They're not mine, and they are mine.'
'They are the children you spoke of this morning?'
'When yo' said,' replied Higgins fiercely, 'that my story might be true or might not, but it were a very unlikely one.'
Mr. Thornton was silent for a moment. Then he said: 'I spoke to you about those children in a way I had no business to do. I did not believe you. I could not have taken care of another man's children myself, if he had acted towards me as I hear Boucher did towards you. But I know now that you spoke truth. I beg your pardon.'
Higgins did not immediately respond to this. But when he did speak, it was in a softened tone, although the words were gruff.
'Yo've no business to go prying into what happened between Boucher and me. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough.'
'So it is. Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask.'
Higgins wavered: and then his eye fell on the children.
'Yo've called me impudent, and a liar, and a mischief-maker, and happen wi' some truth, as I were now and then given to drink. An' I ha' called you a tyrant, an' an oud bull-dog, and a hard, cruel master; that's where it stands. But for th' childer, Measter, do yo' think we can get on together?'
'Well!' said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, 'we neither of us can think much worse of the other than we do now.'
'That's true,' said Higgins, reflectively. 'So, measter, I'll come; and what's more, I thank yo'; and that's a deal fro' me.'
'And this is a deal from me,' said Mr. Thornton, gripping his hand. 'Now mind you come sharp to your time. I'll have no laggards at my mill. And the first time I catch you making mischief, off you go. So now you know where you are.'
'Would yo' rayther have me wi'out my brains?'
'Without your brains if you use them for meddling with my business; with your brains if you can keep them for your own.'
'I shall need a deal o' brains to settle where my business ends and yours begins.'
'Your business has not begun yet. So good afternoon.'
Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher's door, Margaret came out of it. She did not see him; and he followed her for several yards, admiring her light and graceful walk. But, suddenly, this simple emotion of pleasure was poisoned by jealousy. He wished to overtake her, and speak to her, to see how she would receive him, now she must know he was aware of some other attachment. He wished too, but of this wish he was rather ashamed, that she should know that he had repented of his morning's decision about Higgins.
He came up to her. 'Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were premature in your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on.'
'I am glad of it,' said she, coldly.
'He tells me he repeated to you, what I said about-' Mr. Thornton hesitated.
'About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to express your opinion, which was a very correct one, I have no doubt. But,' Margaret went on more eagerly, 'Higgins did not quite tell you the exact truth.' The word 'truth' reminded her of her own untruth, and she stopped short, feeling uncomfortable.
Mr. Thornton was puzzled; and then he remembered the lie she had told. 'The exact truth!' said he. 'Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have given up hoping for it. Miss Hale, have you no explanation to give me? You must perceive what I have to think.'
Margaret was silent, wondering whether an explanation would be consistent with loyalty to Frederick.
'Nay,' said he, 'I will ask no farther. At present, believe me, your secret is safe with me. But you run great risks, allow me to say, in being so indiscreet. I am now only speaking as a friend of your father's: if I had any other thought or hope, of course that is at an end.'
'I am aware of that,' said Margaret, forcing herself to speak in an indifferent way. 'I am aware of what I must appear to you, but the secret is another person's, and I cannot explain it without doing him harm.'
'I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman's secrets,' he said, with growing anger. 'My own interest in you is simply that of a friend. You may not believe me, Miss Hale, after the persecution I'm afraid I threatened you with at one time - but that is all passed away. You believe me, Miss Hale?'
'Yes,' said Margaret, quietly and sadly.
'Then I don't see any occasion for us to go on walking together. I thought perhaps you might have had something to say, but I see we are nothing to each other. I wish you good afternoon.' He walked off very hastily.
'What can he mean?' thought Margaret, 'what could he mean by speaking so, when I know he does not care for me; he cannot. His mother will have said cruel things about me to him. But I won't care for him. I surely am mistress enough of myself to control this wild, strange, miserable feeling, which tempted me even to betray my own dear Frederick, so that I might regain his good opinion - the good opinion of a man who takes such pains to tell me that I am nothing to him. Come, poor little heart! be cheery and brave.'
Her father was almost startled by her merriment that afternoon. She talked incessantly, and forced her natural humour to an unusual pitch; and even if there was a tinge of bitterness in much of what she said, he was glad to see her shake off her cares. For some days her spirits varied strangely; and her father was beginning to be anxious about her, when news arrived that promised some variety for her.
Mr. Hale received a letter from Mr. Bell, who proposed to visit them; and Mr. Hale imagined this would be as agreeable to Margaret as to himself. Margaret tried to take an interest; but she was too languid to care about any Mr. Bell, even though he were twenty times her godfather.
She was more roused by a letter from Edith, full of sympathy about her aunt's death, and saying that as Mrs. Shaw was talking of returning to England, she thought Captain Lennox might sell out of the army, and that they might all go and live again in the old Harley Street house; which, however, would seem very incomplete without Margaret.
Margaret yearned after that old house, and the placid tranquillity of that old well-ordered, monotonous life. She had been so buffeted about, and felt so exhausted by this recent struggle with herself, that even stagnation would be a rest and a refreshment. So she began to look forward to a long visit to the Lennoxes, on their return, as a place where she could regain her command over herself. At present it seemed as if she could not forget Mr. Thornton. If she went to see the Higginses, she heard of him there; her father had resumed their readings together, and quoted his opinions perpetually; even Mr. Bell wrote that he believed he would be occupied with Mr. Thornton, as a new lease was in preparation, and the terms of it must be agreed upon.


"Let China's earth, enriched with coloured stains, Pencil'd with gold, and streaked with azure veins, The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf, Or Mocha's sunburnt berry glad receive." MRS. BARBOULD.
The day after this meeting with Higgins and his daughter Mr. Hale came upstairs into the little drawing-room at an unusual hour. He went up to different objects in the room, as if examining them, but Margaret saw that it was merely a nervous trick--a way of putting off something he wished, yet feared to say. Out it came at last--
"My dear! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea to-night."
Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, with her eyes shut, and an expression of pain on her face which had become habitual to her of late. But she roused up into querulousness at this speech of her husband's.
"Mr. Thornton!--and to-night! What in the world does the man want to come here for? And Dixon is washing my muslins and laces, and there is no soft water with these horrid east winds, which I suppose we shall have all the year round in Milton.
"The wind is veering round, my dear," said Mr. Hale, looking out at the smoke, which drifted right from the east, only he did not yet understand the points of the compass, and rather arranged them ad libitum according to circumstances.
"Don't tell me!" said Mrs. Hale, shuddering up, and wrapping her shawl about her still more closely. "But, east or west wind, I suppose this man comes."
"Oh mamma, that shows you never saw Mr. Thornton. He looks like a person who would enjoy battling with every adverse thing he could meet with--enemies, winds, or circumstances. The more it rains and blows, the more certain we are to have him. But I'll go and help Dixon. I'm getting to be a famous clear-starcher. And he won't want any amusement beyond talking to Papa. Papa, I am really longing to see the Pythias to your Damon. You know I never saw him but once, and then we were so puzzled to know what to say to each other that we did not get on particularly well."
"I don't know that you would ever like him, or think him agreeable, Margaret. He is not a lady's man."
Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve.
"I don't particularly admire ladies' men, papa. But Mr. Thornton comes here as your friend--as one who has appreciated you"--
"The only person in Milton," said Mrs. Hale.
"So we will give him a welcome, and some cocoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be flattered if we ask her to make some; and I will undertake to iron your caps, mamma."
Many a time that morning did Margaret wish Mr. Thornton far enough away. She had planned other employments for herself: a letter to Edith, a good piece of Dante, a visit to the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away, listening to Dixon's complaints, and only hoping that by an excess of sympathy she might prevent her from carrying the recital of her sorrows to Mrs. Hale. Every now and then, Margaret had to remind herself of her father's regard for Mr. Thornton, to subdue the irritation of weariness that was stealing over her, and bringing on one of the bad headaches to which she had lately become liable. She could hardly speak when she sat down at last, and told her mother that she was no longer Peggy the laundry-maid, but Margaret Hale the lady. She meant this speech for a little joke, and was vexed enough with her busy tongue when she found her mother taking it seriously.
"Yes! if any one had told me, when I was Miss Beresford, and one of the belles of the country, that a child of mine would have to stand half a day, in a little poky kitchen, working away like any servant, that we might prepare properly for the reception of a tradesman, and that this tradesman should be the only"--
"Oh, mamma!" said Margaret, lifting herself up, "don't punish me for so careless a speech. I don't mind ironing, or any kind of work for you and papa. I am myself a born and bred lady through it all, even though it comes to scouring a floor, or washing dishes. I am tired now, just for a little while; but in half an hour I shall be ready to do the same over again. And as to Mr. Thornton's being in trade, why he can't help that now, poor fellow. I don't suppose his education would fit him for much else," Margaret lifted herself slowly up, and went to her own room; for just now she could not bear much more.
In Mr. Thornton's house, at this very same time, a similar, yet different scene was going on. A large-boned lady, long past middle age, sat at work in a grim handsomely-furnished dining-room. Her features, like her frame, were strong and massive, rather than heavy. Her face moved slowly from one decided expression to another equally decided. There was no great variety in her countenance; but those who looked at it once, generally looked at it again; even the passers by in the street, half-turned their heads to gaze an instant longer at the firm, severe, dignified woman, who never gave way in street-courtesy, or paused in her straight-onward course to the clearly defined end which she proposed to herself.
She was handsomely dressed in stout black silk, of which not a thread was worn or discoloured. She was mending a large, long table-cloth of the finest texture, holding it up against the light occasionally to discover thin places, which required her delicate care. There was not a book about in the room, with the exception of Matthew Henry's Bible commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of the massive side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on the other. In some remote apartment, there was exercise upon the piano going on. Someone was practising up a morceau de salon, playing it very rapidly, every third note, on an average, being either indistinct, or wholly missed out, and the loud chords at the end being half of them false, but not the less satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thornton heard a step, like her own in its decisive character, pass the dining-room door.
"John! Is that you?"
Her son opened the door, and showed himself.
"What has brought you home so early? I thought you were going to tea with that friend of Mr. Bell's; that Mr. Hale?"
"So I am, mother. I am come home to dress!"
"Dress! humph! When I was a girl, young men were satisfied with dressing once in a day. Why should you dress to go and take a cup of tea with an old parson?"
"Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are ladies."
"Wife and daughter! Do they teach too? What do they do? You have never mentioned them."
"No! mother, because I have never seen Mrs. Hale; I have only seen Miss Hale for half an hour."
"Take care you don't get caught by a penniless girl, John."
"I am not easily caught, mother, as I think you know. But I must not have Miss Hale spoken of in that way, which, you know, is offensive to me. I never was aware of any young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I believe that any one has ever given themselves that useless trouble."
Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the point to her son; or else she had, in general, pride enough for her sex.
"Well! I only say, take care. Perhaps our Milton girls have too much spirit and good feeling to go angling after husbands; but this Miss Hale comes out of the aristocratic counties, where, if all tales be true, rich husbands are reckoned prizes."
Mr. Thornton's brow contracted, and he came a step forward into the room.
"Mother" (with a short scornful laugh), "you will make me confess. The only time I saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty civility which had a strong flavour of contempt in it. She held herself aloof from me as if she had been a queen, and I her humble, unwashed vassal. Be easy, mother."
"No! I am not easy nor content either. What business had she, a renegade clergyman's daughter, to turn up her nose at you! I would dress for none of them--a saucy set! if I were you." As he was leaving the room he said:--
"Mr. Hale is good, and gentle, and learned. He is not saucy. As for Mrs. Hale, I will tell you what she is like to-night, if you care to hear." He shut the door, and was gone.
"Despise my son! treat him as her vassal, indeed! Humph! I should like to know where she could find such another! Boy and man, he's the noblest, stoutest heart I ever knew. I don't care if I am his mother; I can see what's what, and not be blind. I know what Fanny is; and I know what John is. Despise him! I hate her!"

The day after this meeting with Higgins and his daughter, Mr. Hale came upstairs into the little drawing-room. He began to examine different objects there, but Margaret saw that it was merely a nervous way of putting off something he wished, yet feared to say. Out it came at last-
'My dear! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea tonight.'
Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, with her eyes shut, and an expression of pain on her face which had become habitual to her of late. But now she roused up querulously.
'Mr. Thornton! tonight! What in the world does the man want to come here for? And Dixon is washing my muslins and laces, and there is no soft water with these horrid east winds, which I suppose we shall have all year in Milton.'
'The wind is veering round, my dear,' said Mr. Hale, looking out at the smoke rather vaguely.
'Don't tell me!' said Mrs. Hale, shuddering, and wrapping her shawl tightly about her. 'But, east or west wind, I suppose this man comes.'
'Oh, mamma, Mr. Thornton looks like a person who would enjoy battling with everything - winds included. The more it rains and blows, the more certain we are to have him. I'll go and help Dixon. And he won't want any amusement beyond talking to papa. You know, Papa, I have only seen him once, and then we were so puzzled to know what to say to each other that we did not get on particularly well.'
'He is not a lady's man.'
Margaret looked scornful. 'I don't particularly admire ladies' men, papa. But Mr. Thornton comes here as your friend, so we will give him a welcome, and some cocoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be flattered if we ask her to make some; and I will iron your caps, mamma.'
Margaret had planned other employments for herself: a letter to Edith, some Dante, a visit to the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away, listening to Dixon's complaints, and hoping that her sympathy might prevent Dixon from carrying the recital of her sorrows to Mrs. Hale. Margaret had to remind herself of her father's regard for Mr. Thornton, to subdue the weariness that was stealing over her, and bringing on one of the bad headaches to which she had lately become liable. She could hardly speak when she sat down at last, and told her mother that she was no longer Peggy the laundry-maid, but Margaret Hale the lady. She meant this speech for a little joke, and was vexed with herself when she found her mother taking it seriously.
'Yes! if anyone had told me, when I was Miss Beresford, that a child of mine would have to stand in a little poky kitchen, working away like any servant, so that we might prepare to receive a tradesman-'
'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret, 'I don't mind ironing, or any kind of work, for you and papa. I am a born and bred lady through it all. I am just tired now; but in half an hour I shall be ready to do the same over again. And as to Mr. Thornton's being in trade, why, he can't help that, poor fellow. I don't suppose his education would fit him for much else.' She rose slowly and went to her own room; for just now she could not bear much more.
In Mr. Thornton's house, at this very same time, a similar scene was going on. A large-boned lady, long past middle age, sat at work in a grim handsomely-furnished dining-room. Her features were strong and massive, and held a decided expression. She was a firm, severe, dignified woman, handsomely dressed in black silk. She was mending a large table-cloth, holding it up against the light occasionally. There was not a book in the room, except six volumes of Bible Commentaries, which lay on the sideboard, flanked by a tea-urn and a lamp. In some remote room, someone was practising the piano very rapidly and rather carelessly. Mrs. Thornton heard a decisive step pass the dining-room door.
'John! Is that you?'
Her son opened the door.
'What has brought you home so early? I thought you were going to tea with that Mr. Hale.'
'So I am, mother; I am come home to dress!'
'Dress! humph! Why should you dress to go and take a cup of tea with an old parson?'
'Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are ladies.'
'Wife and daughter! Do they teach too? What do they do? You have never mentioned them.'
'No! because I have never seen Mrs. Hale; I have only seen Miss Hale for half an hour.'
'Take care you don't get caught by a penniless girl, John.'
'I am not easily caught, mother, as I think you know. But I must not have Miss Hale spoken of in that way, which, you know, is offensive to me. I never was aware of any young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I believe that any has given themselves that useless trouble.'
'Well! I only say, take care. Perhaps our Milton girls have too much spirit and good feeling to go angling after husbands; but this Miss Hale comes out of the aristocratic counties, where, if all tales be true, rich husbands are reckoned prizes.'
Mr. Thornton's brow contracted. 'Mother,' (with a short scornful laugh), 'I confess that the only time I saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty civility which had a strong flavour of contempt. She was as aloof as a queen. Be easy, mother.'
'No! I am not easy. What business had she, a renegade clergyman's daughter, to turn up her nose at you! I would dress up for none of them, if I were you.'
'Mr. Hale is good, and gentle, and learned. As for Mrs. Hale, I will tell you what she is like tonight, if you care to hear.' He shut the door and was gone.
'Despise my son! Humph! I should like to know where she could find such another! He's the noblest, stoutest heart I ever knew. I don't care if I am his mother; I can see what's what. I know what Fanny is; and I know what John is. Despise him! I hate her!'