North and South, Elizabeth Gaskell [best love story novels in english TXT] 📗

Margaret could only hasten tea by taking the preparation of it into her own hands, and so offending Dixon, who was emerging out of her sorrow for her late mistress into a very touchy, irritable state. But Martha, like all who came in contact with Margaret—even Dixon herself, in the long run—felt it a pleasure and an honour to forward any of her wishes; and her readiness, and Margaret’s sweet forbearance, soon made Dixon ashamed of herself.

‘Why master and you must always be asking the lower classes upstairs, since we came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk at Helstone were never brought higher than the kitchen; and I’ve let one or two of them know before now that they might think it an honour to be even there.’

Higgins found it easier to unburden himself to one than to two. After Margaret left the room, he went to the door and assured himself that it was shut. Then he came and stood close to Mr. Hale.

‘Master,’ said he, ‘yo’d not guess easy what I’ve been tramping after to-day. Special if yo’ remember my manner o’ talk yesterday. I’ve been a seeking work. I have’ said he. ‘I said to mysel’, I’d keep a civil tongue in my head, let who would say what ‘em would. I’d set my teeth into my tongue sooner nor speak i’ haste. For that man’s sake—yo’ understand,’ jerking his thumb back in some unknown direction.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited for some kind of assent, and completely bewildered as to who ‘that man’ could be.

‘That chap as lies theer,’ said he, with another jerk. ‘Him as went and drownded himself, poor chap! I did na’ think he’d got it in him to lie still and let th’ water creep o’er him till he died. Boucher, yo’ know.’

‘Yes, I know now,’ said Mr. Hale. ‘Go back to what you were saying: you’d not speak in haste–-‘

‘For his sake. Yet not for his sake; for where’er he is, and whate’er, he’ll ne’er know other clemming or cold again; but for the wife’s sake, and the bits o’ childer.’

‘God bless you!’ said Mr. Hale, starting up; then, calming down, he said breathlessly, ‘What do you mean? Tell me out.’

‘I have telled yo’,’ said Higgins, a little surprised at Mr. Hale’s agitation. ‘I would na ask for work for mysel’; but them’s left as a charge on me. I reckon, I would ha guided Boucher to a better end; but I set him off o’ th’ road, and so I mun answer for him.’

Mr. Hale got hold of Higgins’s hand and shook it heartily, without speaking. Higgins looked awkward and ashamed.

‘Theer, theer, master! Theer’s ne’er a man, to call a man, amongst us, but what would do th’ same; ay, and better too; for, belie’ me, I’se ne’er got a stroke o’ work, nor yet a sight of any. For all I telled Hamper that, let alone his pledge—which I would not sign—no, I could na, not e’en for this—he’d ne’er ha’ such a worker on his mill as I would be—he’d ha’ none o’ me—no more would none o’ th’ others. I’m a poor black feckless sheep—childer may clem for aught I can do, unless, parson, yo’d help me?’

‘Help you! How? I would do anything,—but what can I do?’

‘Miss there’—for Margaret had re-entered the room, and stood silent, listening—‘has often talked grand o’ the South, and the ways down there. Now I dunnot know how far off it is, but I’ve been thinking if I could get ‘em down theer, where food is cheap and wages good, and all the folk, rich and poor, master and man, friendly like; yo’ could, may be, help me to work. I’m not forty-five, and I’ve a deal o’ strength in me, measter.’

‘But what kind of work could you do, my man?’

‘Well, I reckon I could spade a bit–-‘

‘And for that,’ said Margaret, stepping forwards, ‘for anything you could do, Higgins, with the best will in the world, you would, may be, get nine shillings a week; may be ten, at the outside. Food is much the same as here, except that you might have a little garden–-‘

‘The childer could work at that,’ said he. ‘I’m sick o’ Milton anyways, and Milton is sick o’ me.’

‘You must not go to the South,’ said Margaret, ‘for all that. You could not stand it. You would have to be out all weathers. It would kill you with rheumatism. The mere bodily work at your time of life would break you down. The fare is far different to what you have been accustomed to.’

‘I’se nought particular about my meat,’ said he, as if offended.

‘But you’ve reckoned on having butcher’s meat once a day, if you’re in work; pay for that out of your ten shillings, and keep those poor children if you can. I owe it to you—since it’s my way of talking that has set you off on this idea—to put it all clear before you. You would not bear the dulness of the life; you don’t know what it is; it would eat you away like rust. Those that have lived there all their lives, are used to soaking in the stagnant waters. They labour on, from day to day, in the great solitude of steaming fields—never speaking or lifting up their poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spade-work robs their brain of life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they don’t care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest. You could not stir them up into any companionship, which you get in a town as plentiful as the air you breathe, whether it be good or bad—and that I don’t know; but I do know, that you of all men are not one to bear a life among such labourers. What would be peace to them would be eternal fretting to you. Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg. Besides, you could never pay to get mother and children all there—that’s one good thing.’

‘I’ve reckoned for that. One house mun do for us a’, and the furniture o’ t’other would go a good way. And men theer mun have their families to keep—mappen six or seven childer. God help ‘em!’ said he, more convinced by his own presentation of the facts than by all Margaret had said, and suddenly renouncing the idea, which had but recently formed itself in a brain worn out by the day’s fatigue and anxiety. ‘God help ‘em! North an’ South have each getten their own troubles. If work’s sure and steady theer, labour’s paid at starvation prices; while here we’n rucks o’ money coming in one quarter, and ne’er a farthing th’ next. For sure, th’ world is in a confusion that passes me or any other man to understand; it needs fettling, and who’s to fettle it, if it’s as yon folks say, and there’s nought but what we see?’

Mr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter; Margaret was glad of this, for she saw that Higgins was better left to himself: that if her father began to speak ever so mildly on the subject of Higgins’s thoughts, the latter would consider himself challenged to an argument, and would feel himself bound to maintain his own ground. She and her father kept up an indifferent conversation until Higgins, scarcely aware whether he ate or not, had made a very substantial meal. Then he pushed his chair away from the table, and tried to take an interest in what they were saying; but it was of no use; and he fell back into dreamy gloom. Suddenly, Margaret said (she had been thinking of it for some time, but the words had stuck in her throat), ‘Higgins, have you been to Marlborough Mills to seek for work?’

‘Thornton’s?’ asked he. ‘Ay, I’ve been at Thornton’s.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Such a chap as me is not like to see the measter. Th’ o’erlooker bid me go and be d–-d.’

‘I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,’ said Mr. Hale. ‘He might not have given you work, but he would not have used such language.’

‘As to th’ language, I’m welly used to it; it dunnot matter to me. I’m not nesh mysel’ when I’m put out. It were th’ fact that I were na wanted theer, no more nor ony other place, as I minded.’

‘But I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,’ repeated Margaret. ‘Would you go again—it’s a good deal to ask, I know—but would you go to-morrow and try him? I should be so glad if you would.’

‘I’m afraid it would be of no use,’ said Mr. Hale, in a low voice. ‘It would be better to let me speak to him.’ Margaret still looked at Higgins for his answer. Those grave soft eyes of hers were difficult to resist. He gave a great sigh.

‘It would tax my pride above a bit; if it were for mysel’, I could stand a deal o’ clemming first; I’d sooner knock him down than ask a favour from him. I’d a deal sooner be flogged mysel’; but yo’re not a common wench, axing yo’r pardon, nor yet have yo’ common ways about yo’. I’ll e’en make a wry face, and go at it to-morrow. Dunna yo’ think that he’ll do it. That man has it in him to be burnt at the stake afore he’ll give in. I do it for yo’r sake, Miss Hale, and it’s first time in my life as e’er I give way to a woman. Neither my wife nor Bess could e’er say that much again me.’

‘All the more do I thank you,’ said Margaret, smiling. ‘Though I don’t believe you: I believe you have just given way to wife and daughter as much as most men.’

‘And as to Mr. Thornton,’ said Mr. Hale, ‘I’ll give you a note to him, which, I think I may venture to say, will ensure you a hearing.’

‘I thank yo’ kindly, sir, but I’d as lief stand on my own bottom. I dunnot stomach the notion of having favour curried for me, by one as doesn’t know the ins and outs of the quarrel. Meddling ‘twixt master and man is liker meddling ‘twixt husband and wife than aught else: it takes a deal o’ wisdom for to do ony good. I’ll stand guard at the lodge door. I’ll stand there fro’ six in the morning till I get speech on him. But I’d liefer sweep th’ streets, if paupers had na’ got hold on that work. Dunna yo’ hope, miss. There’ll be more chance o’ getting milk out of a flint. I wish yo’ a very good night, and many thanks to yo’.’

‘You’ll find your shoe’s by the kitchen fire; I took them there to dry,’ said Margaret.

He turned round and looked at her steadily, and then he brushed his lean hand across his eyes and went his way.

‘How proud that man is!’ said her father, who was a little annoyed at the manner in which Higgins had declined his intercession with Mr. Thornton.

‘He is,’ said Margaret; ‘but what grand makings of a man there are in him, pride and all.’

‘It’s amusing to see how he evidently respects the part in Mr. Thornton’s character which is like his own.’

‘There’s granite in all these northern people, papa, is there not?’

‘There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in his wife either.’

‘I should guess from their tones that they had Irish blood in them. I wonder what success he’ll have to-morrow. If he and