Mary hurried out of the house catching gladly at the open door, and crying aloud when she got away from her father's presence. It was only John Boucher that took no notice whatever who came in and who went out. 'It's no use, Higgins. Hoo cannot live long a' this'n. Hoo's just sinking away--not for want o' meat hersel'--but because hoo cannot stand th' sight o' the little ones clemming. Ay, clemming! Five shilling a week may do well enough for thee, wi' but two mouths to fill, and one on 'em a wench who can welly earn her own meat. But it's clemming to us. An' I tell thee plain--if hoo dies as I'm 'feard hoo will afore we've getten th' five per cent, I'll fling th' money back i' th' master's face, and say, "Be domned to yo'; be domned to th' whole cruel world o' yo'; that could na leave me th' best wife that ever bore childer to a man!" An' look thee, lad, I'll hate thee, and th' whole pack o' th' Union. Ay, an' chase yo' through heaven wi' my hatred,--I will, lad! I will,--if yo're leading me astray i' this matter. Thou saidst, Nicholas, on Wednesday sennight--and it's now Tuesday i' th' second week--that afore a fortnight we'd ha' the masters coming a-begging to us to take back our' work, at our own wage--and time's nearly up,--and there's our lile Jack lying a-bed, too weak to cry, but just every now and then sobbing up his heart for want o' food,--our lile Jack, I tell thee, lad! Hoo's never looked up sin' he were born, and hoo loves him as if he were her very life,--as he is,--for I reckon he'll ha'
cost me that precious price,--our lile Jack, who wakened me each morn wi'
putting his sweet little lips to my great rough fou' face, a-seeking a smooth place to kiss,--an' he lies clemming.' Here the deep sobs choked the poor man, and Nicholas looked up, with eyes brimful of tears, to Margaret, before he could gain courage to speak. 'Hou'd up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na' clem. I ha' getten brass, and we'll go buy the chap a sup o' milk an' a good four-pounder this very minute.
What's mine's thine, sure enough, i' thou'st i' want. Only, dunnot lose heart, man!' continued he, as he fumbled in a tea-pot for what money he had. 'I lay yo' my heart and soul we'll win for a' this: it's but bearing on one more week, and yo just see th' way th' masters 'll come round, praying on us to come back to our mills. An' th' Union,--that's to say, I--will take care yo've enough for th' childer and th' missus. So dunnot turn faint-heart, and go to th' tyrants a-seeking work.' The man turned round at these words,--turned round a face so white, and gaunt, and tear-furrowed, and hopeless, that its very calm forced Margaret to weep. 'Yo' know well, that a worser tyrant than e'er th' masters were says "Clem to death, and see 'em a' clem to death, ere yo' dare go again th' Union."Yo' know it well, Nicholas, for a' yo're one on 'em. Yo' may be kind hearts, each separate; but once banded together, yo've no more pity for a man than a wild hunger-maddened wolf.' Nicholas had his hand on the lock of the door--he stopped and turned round on Boucher, close following: 'So help me God! man alive--if I think not I'm doing best for thee, and for all on us. If I'm going wrong when I think I'm going right, it's their sin, who ha' left me where I am, in my ignorance. I ha' thought till my brains ached,--Beli' me, John, I have. An' I say again, there's no help for us but having faith i' th' Union. They'll win the day, see if they dunnot!' Not one word had Margaret or Bessy spoken. They had hardly uttered the sighing, that the eyes of each called to the other to bring up from the depths of her heart. At last Bessy said, 'I never thought to hear father call on God again. But yo' heard him say, "So help me God!"' 'Yes!' said Margaret. 'Let me bring you what money I can spare,--let me bring you a little food for that poor man's children. Don't let them know it comes from any one but your father. It will be but little.' Bessy lay back without taking any notice of what Margaret said. She did not cry--she only quivered up her breath, 'My heart's drained dry o' tears,' she said. 'Boucher's been in these days past, a telling me of his fears and his troubles. He's but a weak kind o' chap, I know, but he's a man for a' that; and tho' I've been angry, many a time afore now, wi' him an' his wife, as knew no more nor him how to manage, yet, yo' see, all folks isn't wise, yet God lets 'em live--ay, an' gives 'em some one to love, and be loved by, just as good as Solomon.
An', if sorrow comes to them they love, it hurts 'em as sore as e'er it did Solomon. I can't make it out. Perhaps it's as well such a one as Boucher has th' Union to see after him. But I'd just like for to see th' mean as make th' Union, and put 'em one by one face to face wi' Boucher. I reckon, if they heard him, they'd tell him (if I cotched 'em one by one), he might go back and get what he could for his work, even if it weren't so much as they ordered.' Margaret sat utterly silent. How was she ever to go away into comfort and forget that man's voice, with the tone of unutterable agony, telling more by far than his words of what he had to suffer? She took out her purse;she had not much in it of what she could call her own, but what she had she put into Bessy's hand without speaking. 'Thank yo'. There's many on 'em gets no more, and is not so bad off,--leastways does not show it as he does. But father won't let 'em want, now he knows.
Yo' see, Boucher's been pulled down wi' his childer,--and her being so cranky, and a' they could pawn has gone this last twelvemonth. Yo're not to think we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all we're a bit pressed oursel';if neighbours doesn't see after neighbours, I dunno who will.' Bessy seemed almostafraid lest Margaret should think they had not the will, and, to a certain degree, the power of helping one whom she evidently regarded as having a claim upon them. 'Besides,' she went on, 'father is sure and positive the masters must give in within these next few days,--that they canna hould on much longer. But I thank yo' all the same,--I thank yo'
for mysel', as much as for Boucher, for it just makes my heart warm to yo' more and more.' Bessy seemed much quieter to-day, but fearfully languid a exhausted. As she finished speaking, she looked so faint and weary that Margaret became alarmed. 'It's nout,' said Bessy. 'It's not death yet. I had a fearfu' night wi'
dreams--or somewhat like dreams, for I were wide awake--and I'm all in a swounding daze to-day,--only yon poor chap made me alive again. No! it's not death yet, but death is not far off. Ay! Cover me up, and I'll may be sleep, if th' cough will let me. Good night--good afternoon, m'appen I should say--but th' light is dim an' misty to-day.'
