Shirley Charlotte BrontĂ« (free ebook reader for pc .txt) đ
- Author: Charlotte Brontë
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âIâve not much faith iâ Moses Barraclough,â said he, âand I would speak a word to you myseln, Mr. Moore. Itâs out oâ no ill-will that Iâm here, for my part; itâs just to mak a effort to get things straightened, for theyâre sorely a-crooked. Ye see weâre ill offâ âvarry ill off; wer families is poor and pined. Weâre thrown out oâ work wiâ these frames; we can get nought to do; we can earn nought. What is to be done? Mun we say, wisht! and lig us down and dee? Nay; Iâve no grand words at my tongueâs end, Mr. Moore, but I feel that it wad be a low principle for a reasonable man to starve to death like a dumb cratur. I willnât doât. Iâm not for shedding blood: Iâd neither kill a man nor hurt a man; and Iâm not for pulling down mills and breaking machinesâ âfor, as ye say, that way oâ going onâll niver stop invention; but Iâll talkâ âIâll mak as big a din as ever I can. Invention may be all right, but I know it isnât right for poor folks to starve. Them that governs mun find a way to help us; they mun make fresh orderations. Yeâll say thatâs hard to do. So mich louder mun we shout out then, for so much slacker will tâ Parliament-men be to set on to a tough job.â
âWorry the Parliament-men as much as you please,â said Moore; âbut to worry the mill-owners is absurd, and I for one wonât stand it.â
âYeâre a raight hard un!â returned the workman. âWillnât ye gie us a bit oâ time? Willnât ye consent to mak your changes rather more slowly?â
âAm I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire? Answer me that.â
âYeâre yourseln.â
âAnd only myself. And if I stopped by the way an instant, while others are rushing on, I should be trodden down. If I did as you wish me to do, I should be bankrupt in a month; and would my bankruptcy put bread into your hungry childrenâs mouths? William Farren, neither to your dictation nor to that of any other will I submit. Talk to me no more about machinery. I will have my own way. I shall get new frames in tomorrow. If you broke these, I would still get more. Iâll never give in.â
Here the mill-bell rang twelve oâclock. It was the dinner-hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered his countinghouse.
His last words had left a bad, harsh impression; he, at least, had âfailed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of.â By speaking kindly to William Farrenâ âwho was a very honest man, without envy or hatred of those more happily circumstanced than himself, thinking it no hardship and no injustice to be forced to live by labour, disposed to be honourably content if he could but get work to doâ âMoore might have made a friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn from such a man without a conciliatory or a sympathizing expression. The poor fellowâs face looked haggard with want; he had the aspect of a man who had not known what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months, past, and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in his countenance; it was worn, dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words, âIâll never give in,â and not a whisper of goodwill, or hope, or aid?
Farren, as he went home to his cottageâ âonce, in better times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, but now, though still clean, very dreary, because so poorâ âasked himself this question. He concluded that the foreign mill-owner was a selfish, an unfeeling, and, he thought, too, a foolish man. It appeared to him that emigration, had he only the means to emigrate, would be preferable to service under such a master. He felt much cast downâ âalmost hopeless.
On his entrance his wife served out, in orderly sort, such dinner as she had to give him and the bairns. It was only porridge, and too little of that. Some of the younger children asked for more when they had done their portionâ âan application which disturbed William much. While his wife quieted them as well as she could, he left his seat and went to the door. He whistled a cheery stave, which did not, however, prevent a broad drop or two (much more like the âfirst of a thundershowerâ than those which oozed from the wound of the gladiator) from gathering on the lids of his gray eyes, and plashing thence to the threshold. He cleared his vision with his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one followed.
He still stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came upâ âa clergyman, it might be seen at once, but neither Helstone, nor Malone, nor Donne, nor Sweeting. He might be forty years old; he was plain-looking, dark-complexioned, and already rather gray-haired. He stooped a little in walking. His countenance, as he came on, wore an abstracted and somewhat doleful air; but in approaching Farren he looked up, and then a hearty expression illuminated the preoccupied, serious face.
âIs it you, William? How are you?â he asked.
âMiddling, Mr. Hall. How are ye? Will ye step in and rest ye?â
Mr. Hall, whose name the reader has seen mentioned before (and who, indeed, was vicar of Nunnely, of which parish Farren was a native, and from whence he had removed
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