North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell (classic literature books .txt) 📖

‘Papa—you must not wonder at what he says: he’s an–-I mean he does not believe in much of what we do.’

‘Oh dear! a drunken infidel weaver!’ said Mr. Hale to himself, in dismay. But to Margaret he only said, ‘If your mother goes to sleep, be sure you come directly.’

Margaret went into her mother’s room. Mrs. Hale lifted herself up from a doze.

‘When did you write to Frederick, Margaret? Yesterday, or the day before?’

‘Yesterday, mamma.’

‘Yesterday. And the letter went?’

‘Yes. I took it myself’

‘Oh, Margaret, I’m so afraid of his coming! If he should be recognised! If he should be taken! If he should be executed, after all these years that he has kept away and lived in safety! I keep falling asleep and dreaming that he is caught and being tried.’

‘Oh, mamma, don’t be afraid. There will be some risk no doubt; but we will lessen it as much as ever we can. And it is so little! Now, if we were at Helstone, there would be twenty—a hundred times as much. There, everybody would remember him and if there was a stranger known to be in the house, they would be sure to guess it was Frederick; while here, nobody knows or cares for us enough to notice what we do. Dixon will keep the door like a dragon—won’t you, Dixon—while he is here?’

‘They’ll be clever if they come in past me!’ said Dixon, showing her teeth at the bare idea.

‘And he need not go out, except in the dusk, poor fellow!’

‘Poor fellow!’ echoed Mrs. Hale. ‘But I almost wish you had not written. Would it be too late to stop him if you wrote again, Margaret?’

‘I’m afraid it would, mamma,’ said Margaret, remembering the urgency with which she had entreated him to come directly, if he wished to see his mother alive.

‘I always dislike that doing things in such a hurry,’ said Mrs. Hale.

Margaret was silent.

‘Come now, ma am,’ said Dixon, with a kind of cheerful authority, ‘you know seeing Master Frederick is just the very thing of all others you’re longing for. And I’m glad Miss Margaret wrote off straight, without shilly-shallying. I’ve had a great mind to do it myself. And we’ll keep him snug, depend upon it. There’s only Martha in the house that would not do a good deal to save him on a pinch; and I’ve been thinking she might go and see her mother just at that very time. She’s been saying once or twice she should like to go, for her mother has had a stroke since she came here, only she didn’t like to ask. But I’ll see about her being safe off, as soon as we know when he comes, God bless him! So take your tea, ma’am, in comfort, and trust to me.’

Mrs. Hale did trust in Dixon more than in Margaret. Dixon’s words quieted her for the time. Margaret poured out the tea in silence, trying to think of something agreeable to say; but her thoughts made answer something like Daniel O’Rourke, when the man-in-the-moon asked him to get off his reaping-hook. ‘The more you ax us, the more we won’t stir.’ The more she tried to think of something anything besides the danger to which Frederick would be exposed—the more closely her imagination clung to the unfortunate idea presented to her. Her mother prattled with Dixon, and seemed to have utterly forgotten the possibility of Frederick being tried and executed—utterly forgotten that at her wish, if by Margaret’s deed, he was summoned into this danger. Her mother was one of those who throw out terrible possibilities, miserable probabilities, unfortunate chances of all kinds, as a rocket throws out sparks; but if the sparks light on some combustible matter, they smoulder first, and burst out into a frightful flame at last. Margaret was glad when, her filial duties gently and carefully performed, she could go down into the study. She wondered how her father and Higgins had got on.

In the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, simple, old-fashioned gentleman, had unconsciously called out, by his own refinement and courteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy in the other.

Mr. Hale treated all his fellow-creatures alike: it never entered into his head to make any difference because of their rank. He placed a chair for Nicholas stood up till he, at Mr. Hale’s request, took a seat; and called him, invariably, ‘Mr. Higgins,’ instead of the curt ‘Nicholas’ or ‘Higgins,’ to which the ‘drunken infidel weaver’ had been accustomed. But Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor a thorough infidel. He drank to drown care, as he would have himself expressed it: and he was infidel so far as he had never yet found any form of faith to which he could attach himself, heart and soul.

Margaret was a little surprised, and very much pleased, when she found her father and Higgins in earnest conversation—each speaking with gentle politeness to the other, however their opinions might clash. Nicholas—clean, tidied (if only at the pump-trough), and quiet spoken—was a new creature to her, who had only seen him in the rough independence of his own hearthstone. He had ‘slicked’ his hair down with the fresh water; he had adjusted his neck-handkerchief, and borrowed an odd candle-end to polish his clogs with and there he sat, enforcing some opinion on her father, with a strong Darkshire accent, it is true, but with a lowered voice, and a good, earnest composure on his face. Her father, too, was interested in what his companion was saying. He looked round as she came in, smiled, and quietly gave her his chair, and then sat down afresh as quickly as possible, and with a little bow of apology to his guest for the interruption. Higgins nodded to her as a sign of greeting; and she softly adjusted her working materials on the table, and prepared to listen.

‘As I was a-sayin, sir, I reckon yo’d not ha’ much belief in yo’ if yo’ lived here,—if yo’d been bred here. I ax your pardon if I use wrong words; but what I mean by belief just now, is a-thinking on sayings and maxims and promises made by folk yo’ never saw, about the things and the life, yo’ never saw, nor no one else. Now, yo’ say these are true things, and true sayings, and a true life. I just say, where’s the proof? There’s many and many a one wiser, and scores better learned than I am around me,—folk who’ve had time to think on these things,—while my time has had to be gi’en up to getting my bread. Well, I sees these people. Their lives is pretty much open to me. They’re real folk. They don’t believe i’ the Bible,—not they. They may say they do, for form’s sake; but Lord, sir, d’ye think their first cry i’ th’ morning is, “What shall I do to get hold on eternal life?” or “What shall I do to fill my purse this blessed day? Where shall I go? What bargains shall I strike?” The purse and the gold and the notes is real things; things as can be felt and touched; them’s realities; and eternal life is all a talk, very fit for—I ax your pardon, sir; yo’r a parson out o’ work, I believe. Well! I’ll never speak disrespectful of a man in the same fix as I’m in mysel’. But I’ll just ax yo another question, sir, and I dunnot want yo to answer it, only to put in yo’r pipe, and smoke it, afore yo’ go for to set down us, who only believe in what we see, as fools and noddies. If salvation, and life to come, and what not, was true—not in men’s words, but in men’s hearts’ core—dun yo’ not think they’d din us wi’ it as they do wi’ political ‘conomy? They’re mighty anxious to come round us wi’ that piece o’ wisdom; but t’other would be a greater convarsion, if it were true.’

‘But the masters have nothing to do with your religion. All that they are connected with you in is trade,—so they think,—and all that it concerns them, therefore, to rectify your opinions in is the science of trade.’

‘I’m glad, sir,’ said Higgins, with a curious wink of his eye, ‘that yo’ put in, “so they think.” I’d ha’ thought yo’ a hypocrite, I’m afeard, if yo’ hadn’t, for all yo’r a parson, or rayther because yo’r a parson. Yo’ see, if yo’d spoken o’ religion as a thing that, if it was true, it didn’t concern all men to press on all men’s attention, above everything else in this ‘varsal earth, I should ha’ thought yo’ a knave for to be a parson; and I’d rather think yo’ a fool than a knave. No offence, I hope, sir.’

‘None at all. You consider me mistaken, and I consider you far more fatally mistaken. I don’t expect to convince you in a day,—not in one conversation; but let us know each other, and speak freely to each other about these things, and the truth will prevail. I should not believe in God if I did not believe that. Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you have given up, you believe’—(Mr. Hale’s voice dropped low in reverence)—‘you believe in Him.’

Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up. Margaret started to her feet,—for she thought, by the working of his face, he was going into convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at her dismayed. At last Higgins found words:

‘Man! I could fell yo’ to the ground for tempting me. Whatten business have yo’ to try me wi’ your doubts? Think o’ her lying theere, after the life hoo’s led and think then how yo’d deny me the one sole comfort left—that there is a God, and that He set her her life. I dunnot believe she’ll ever live again,’ said he, sitting down, and drearily going on, as if to the unsympathising fire. ‘I dunnot believe in any other life than this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such never-ending care; and I cannot bear to think it were all a set o’ chances, that might ha’ been altered wi’ a breath o’ wind. There’s many a time when I’ve thought I didna believe in God, but I’ve never put it fair out before me in words, as many men do. I may ha’ laughed at those who did, to brave it out like—but I have looked round at after, to see if He heard me, if so be there was a He; but to-day, when I’m left desolate, I wunnot listen to yo’ wi’ yo’r questions, and yo’r doubts. There’s but one thing steady and quiet i’ all this reeling world, and, reason or no reason, I’ll cling to that. It’s a’ very well for happy folk’–-

Margaret touched his arm very softly. She had not spoken before, nor had he heard her rise.

‘Nicholas, we do not want to reason; you misunderstand my father. We do not reason—we believe; and so do you. It is the one sole comfort in such times.’

He turned round and caught her hand. ‘Ay! it is, it is—(brushing away the tears with the back of his hand).—‘But yo’ know, she’s lying dead at home and I’m welly dazed wi’ sorrow, and at times I hardly know what I’m saying. It’s as if speeches folk ha’ made—clever and smart things as I’ve thought at the time—come up now my heart’s welly brossen. Th’ strike’s failed as well; dun yo’ know that, miss? I were coming whoam to ask her, like a beggar as I am, for a bit o’ comfort i’ that trouble; and I were knocked down by one who telled me she were dead—just dead That were all; but that were enough for