“Worry the Parliament-men as much as you please,” said Moore; “but to worry the millowners is absurd, and I for one won’t stand it.”
“Ye’re a raight hard un!” returned the workman. “Willn’t ye gie us a bit o’ time? Willn’t ye consent to mak your changes rather more slowly?”
“Am I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire? Answer me that.”
“Ye’re yourseln.”
“And 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 children’s 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. I’ll never give in.”
Here the mill-bell rang twelve o’clock. It was the dinner-hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered his counting-house.
His last words had left a bad, harsh impression; he, at least, had “failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of.” By speaking kindly to William Farren — who 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 do — Moore 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 fellow’s 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, “I’ll never give in,” and not a whisper of goodwill, or hope, or aid?
Farren, as he went home to his cottage — once, in better times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, but now, though still clean, very dreary, because so poor — asked himself this question. He concluded that the foreign millowner 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 down — almost 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 portion — an 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 “first of a thunder-shower” 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 up — a 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.
“Is it you, William? How are you?” he asked.
“Middling, Mr. Hall. How are ye? Will ye step in and rest ye?”
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 but three years ago to reside in Briarfield, for the convenience of being near Hollow’s Mill, where he had obtained work), entered the cottage, and having greeted the goodwife and the children, sat down. He proceeded to talk very cheerfully about the length of time that had elapsed since the family quitted his parish, the changes which had occurred since; he answered questions touching his sister Margaret, who was inquired after with much interest; he asked questions in his turn, and at last, glancing hastily and anxiously round through his spectacles (he wore spectacles, for he was shortsighted) at the bare room, and at the meagre and wan faces of the circle about him — for the children had come round his knee, and the father and mother stood before him — he said abruptly, —
“And how are you all? How do you get on?”
Mr. Hall, be it remarked, though an accomplished scholar, not only spoke with a strong northern accent, but, on occasion, used freely north-country expressions.
“We get on poorly,” said William; “we’re all out of work. I’ve selled most o’ t’ household stuff, as ye may see; and what we’re to do next, God knows.”
“Has Mr. Moore turned you off?”
“He has turned us off; and I’ve sich an opinion of him now that I think if he’d tak me on again tomorrow I wouldn’t work for him.”
“It is not like you to say so, William.”
“I know it isn’t; but I’m getting different to mysel’; I feel I am changing. I wadn’t heed if t’ bairns and t’ wife had enough to live on; but they’re pinched — they’re pined — — “
“Well, my lad, and so are you; I see you are. These are grievous times; I see suffering wherever I turn. William, sit down. Grace, sit down. Let us talk it over.”
And in order the better to talk it over, Mr. Hall lifted the least of the children on to his knee, and placed his hand on the head of the next least; but when the small things began to chatter to him he bade them “Whisht!” and fixing his eyes on the grate, he regarded the handful of embers which burned there very gravely.
“Sad times,” he said, “and they last long. It is the will of God. His will be done. But He tries us to the utmost.”
Again he reflected.
“You’ve no money, William, and you’ve nothing you could sell to raise a small sum?”
“No. I’ve selled t’ chest o’ drawers, and t’ clock, and t’ bit of a mahogany stand, and t’ wife’s bonny tea-tray and set o’ cheeney ‘at she brought for a portion when we were wed.”
“And if somebody lent you a pound or two, could you make any good use of it? Could you get into a new way of doing something?”
Farren did not answer, but his wife said quickly, “Ay, I’m sure he could, sir. He’s a very contriving chap is our William. If he’d two or three pounds he could begin selling stuff.”
“Could you, William?”
“Please God,” returned William deliberately, “I could buy groceries, and bits o’ tapes, and thread, and what I thought would sell, and I could begin hawking at first.”
“And you know, sir,” interposed Grace, “you’re sure William would neither drink, nor idle, nor waste, in any way. He’s my husband, and I shouldn’t praise him; but I will say there’s not a soberer, honester man i’ England nor he is.”
“Well, I’ll speak to one or two friends, and I think I can promise to let him have £5 in a day or two — as a loan, ye mind, not a gift. He must pay it back.”
“I understand, sir. I’m quite agreeable to that.”
“Meantime, there’s a few shillings for you, Grace, just to keep the pot boiling till custom comes. — Now, bairns, stand up in a row and say your catechism,