and muddled.”
Slackbridge shook his head as if he would shake it off, in his bitterness.
“I’m th’ one single hand in Bounderby’s mill, o’ a’ the men theer, as don’t coom in wi’ th’ proposed reg’lations. I canna’ coom in wi’ ’em. My friends, I doubt their doin’ yo onny good. Licker they’ll do yo hurt.”
Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and frowned sarcastically.
“But ’t an’t sommuch for that as I stands out. If that were aw, I’d coom in wi’ th’ rest. But I ha’ my reasons—mine, yo see—for being hindered; not on’y now, but awlus—awlus—life long!”
Slackbridge jumped up and stood beside him, gnashing and tearing. “Oh, my friends, what but this did I tell you? Oh, my fellow-countrymen, what warning but this did I give you? And how shows this recreant conduct in a man on whom unequal laws are known to have fallen heavy? Oh, you Englishmen, I ask you: How does this subornation show in one of yourselves, who is thus consenting to his own undoing and to yours, and to your children’s and your children’s children’s?”
There was some applause and some crying of Shame upon the man, but the greater part of the audience were quiet. They looked at Stephen’s worn face, rendered more pathetic by the homely emotions it evinced, and, in the kindness of their nature, they were more sorry than indignant.
“ ’Tis this delegate’s trade for t’ speak,” said Stephen, “an’ he’s paid for ’t, an’ he knows his work. Let him keep to ’t. Let him give no heed to what I ha’ had’n to bear. That’s not for him. That’s not for nobbody but me.”
There was a propriety, not to say a dignity, in these words that made the hearers yet more quiet and attentive. The same strong voice called out, “Slackbridge, let the man be heern, and howd thee tongue!” Then the place was wonderfully still.
“My brothers,” said Stephen, whose low voice was distinctly heard, “and my fellow-workmen—for that yo are to me, though not, as I knows on, to this delegate here—I ha’ but a word to sen, and I could sen nommore if I was to speak till strike o’ day. I know weel aw what’s afore me. I know weel that yo aw resolve to ha’ nommore ado wi’ a man who is not wi’ yo in this matther. I know weel that if I was a-lyin’ parisht i’ th’ road, you’d feel it right to pass me by, as a forrenner and stranger. What I ha’ getn, I mun mak’ th’ best on.”
“Stephen Blackpool,” said the chairman, rising, “think on ’t agen. Think on ’t once agen, lad, afore thou’rt shunned by aw owd friends.”
There was an universal murmur to the same effect, though no man articulated a word. Every eye was fixed on Stephen’s face. To repent of his determination would be to take a load from all their minds. He looked around him and knew that it was so. Not a grain of anger with them was in his heart; he knew them, far below their surface weaknesses and misconceptions, as no one but their fellow-labourer could.
“I ha’ thowt on ’t, above a bit, sir. I simply canna coom in. I mun go th’ way as lays afore me. I mun tak’ my leave o’ aw heer.”
He made a sort of reverence to them by holding up his arms, and stood for the moment in that attitude, not speaking until they slowly dropped at his sides.
“Monny’s the pleasant word as soom heer has spok’n wi’ me; monny’s the face I see heer as I first seen when I were yoong and lighter heart’n than now. I ha’ never had no fratch afore, sin ever I were born, wi’ any o’ my like; Gonnows I ha’ none now that’s o’ my makin’. Yo’ll ca’ me traitor and that—yo I mean t’ say,” addressing Slackbridge, “but ’tis easier to ca’ than mak’ out. So let be.”
He had moved away a pace or two to come down from the platform, when he remembered something he had not said, and returned again.
“Haply,” he said, turning his furrowed face slowly about, that he might as it were individually address the whole audience, those both near and distant, “haply, when this question has been tak’n up and discoosed, there’ll be a threat to turn out if I’m let to work among yo. I hope I shall die ere ever such a time cooms, and I shall work solitary among yo unless