The following day, Margaret suggested that she and her father walk over to Princeton and visit with Nicholas Higgins. Father and daughter had not been out together since Mrs Hale's seizures had caught up with her, on the evening of the Thornton's dinner. Margaret thought the walk – and the company – would do her father good. Isabel endorsed the idea, believing that Mr Hale's inertia and weakness of mind could be staved off with exercise and a ready occupation. Indeed, she was hopeful that he would grace the pages of Milton far longer than Gaskell had ordained, now that she had secured from Mr Thornton, an indication that he would not neglect his visits to Mr Hale.

She had never truly believed it possible for a person to die of a broken heart – at least, not in the metaphorical sense, for certainly heart disease was fatal – but in the pages of Milton, she had always supposed a certain lack of will or interest to go on living, after the death of Mrs Hale. That Mr Hale should grieve was only natural, but he was not an elderly man, and had never appeared sickly, and so Isabel thought to prolong his life by fending off his depression, through ensuring he immersed himself in that bustling Milton life he had so come to admire. Still, for all the good the visit with Higgins would do both father and daughter, Isabel knew that it would be a sorrowful one, full of new angst and suffering. And so it was, that although she had never formed the close friendship with Nicholas Higgins that Margaret had, she invited herself along.

And Mr Hale did appear brighter in his countenance, as he walked through the crowded streets of Milton; one young lady upon each arm. He did not have the ease of manner which Isabel had first recognised in him, but he offered conversation, citing his interest in the book Mr Thornton had given to him the evening before. He even took an interest in Mr Thornton's plans for the Mill infirmary, and Margaret – whose Christian and philanthropic sensibilities were flattered by such a worthy scheme – actively encouraged her father in this new interest.

'Perhaps we ought to ask Mr Thornton if we can set up a school, Papa?' enthused Margaret. 'I could teach the little ones, and you could teach the men?' Isabel grimaced, for although she had explained to Margaret, Mr Thornton's business justifications for the infirmary, she knew her friend saw only the humanitarian advantage, and thus, could not see why one endeavour should not naturally lead on to another.

'I think we ought to leave Mr Thornton to determine how to spend his own money, Margaret,' warned Mr Hale gently, for he had listened to Mr Thornton's reasoning for the infirmary, and although he would have liked his friend to have spoken with more charity of spirit, he could see that where the working poor would gain from such a scheme, so too, would Marlborough Mills. He was less certain, however, how lecturing on ecclesiastical architecture could increase his friend's profits in the cotton trade.

And so the party of three arrived in Francis Street in higher spirts than they had been of late; Mr Thornton's pockets still intact. Nicholas Higgins was sat in his favoured chair beside the fire, but did not have about him his accustomed pipe. Isabel thought it likely that he could no longer afford the luxury, but spoke nothing of her suspicions, instead allowing Margaret to make her merry greeting.

'We came later in the day, thinking we had a better chance of finding you in after dinner-time,' said Margaret, as she seated herself at Nicholas Higgins's bidding.

'Appen yo'll find me 'ere whenever yo' should call,' replied the gruff man. His face was thick with several days' worth of black stubble, and he looked scruffy in clothes which were sorely in need of darning.

'You are out of work?' frowned Margaret, with concern.

'Ay, but my Bessy was puttin' money under her pillow an' my Mary is set abou' faustian cutting; I'm no' wanting brass!' replied Higgins, warningly. 'Still, I'm out o' work all th' same.'

'But we owe Mary money,' put in Mr Hale, but Nicholas would have none of it.

'If Hoo takes money from yo', I'll turn 'er out o' doors!' retorted Higgins.

'But she worked hard for us and we owe her pay,' continued Mr Hale, heedless to his daughter's clutching of his arm, endeavouring to instil in him, that it was a matter of pride and honour to Nicholas Higgins, that his daughter take no pay for the service of a friend.

'Yo'r daughter helped my poor wench an' I ne'er thanked 'er for it. Now yo' go makin' a fuss o'er what little Mary did for yo'!' Keen to change the subject, Margaret asked if Nicholas was out of work because of the strike. 'Ay,' explained he, with a weary sigh. 'Strike's o'er, but I'm out o' work. I'm out o' work because I ne'er asked for it an' I ne'er asked for it because them is tellin' their workers how t' spend their money, an' I'll not be told.'

'How do you mean?' asked Mr Hale, confused.

'Measter!' replied Nicholas, 'let me ask yo' a question. Yo' is makin' a livin' somehow; not manys as come to Milton if they don' need work.'

'Yes; I have some property, but I came to Milton to earn a living as a tutor.'

'An' so folk pays yo' to teach them! An' when they pays yo', dun they tell yo' whatten yo' may spend yo' money on? Whatten yo' may do wi' it an' whatten yo' may not do wi' it?'

'No! to be sure, they do not!' replied Mr Hale, with a hearty and pleasing sense of feeling.

'Well th' Masters, they tell us "yo' may not help yo' brother with yo' money. Yo' may think a brother a good purpose for yo' brass an' yo' may want t' give it t' him, but we don't like yo' t' spend yo' brass on that, so appen don't or we'll leave off dealin' wi' yo." Would yo' be willin' t' work as tutor if yo' pupils told yo' that?'

'No! Certainly not.'

'Nor am I.' Seeing the look of confusion on Margaret's face (for, of course, Isabel already understood Higgins' complaint), he turned to her and continued.

'Now th' mills is open again an' everyone asks t' come back, Hamper – that's where I worked – says that no man may work fo' 'im who pays into Union. And no man may use his brass t' keep a turnout from clemmin'. An' I've been a turnout an' knows what clemmin' is! It's bad t' tell a man whatten he may do wi' his own money, an' it hardens a man's heart t' 'is brother, just because 'e's afeared o' doin what's right an' losing 'is place.'

'Is this rule – preventing you from contributing to the Union – in place within all the mills?' asked Margaret, doubtfully.

'I don' know. It's a new rule, an' I isn't knowing, but th' Masters will 'ave trouble makin' th' men stick t' it; tyrants make lairs.'

'But,' replied Margaret, cautious of vexing Higgins, but wanting to speak her mind. 'Do you remember when your neighbour – Boucher – was crying with hunger for his family, and he said the strike pay not enough for his six children? I heard him say then, that the Union was a tyrant; the worst tyrant of them all?' Nicholas was quiet for some time, lost in thought, but at length, he spoke with a weary sigh.

'Th' power o th' Union is great, but only if all men stand t'gether. It 'as t' be 'ard an' 'appen it may 'ave t' force a man for 'is own good, but when yo's in th' Union, it looks after yo' better than yo' could do fo' yo'self. Us workin' men can only get our rights by joinin' t'gether, an' that's what th' Union does. We 'ave all t' do th' same, so when a neighbour wants t' go off an' do 'is own thing, th' Union must check 'im. We can't go clapping peoples in prison, but we can make a man's life h'ard; make 'im an outcast until 'e's obliged t' tow th' line. Boucher was a fool; always was.'

'He did you harm?' asked Margaret, sensing the anger stir within Nicholas's breast.

'Ay! 'E were caught up in th' riot at Marlborough Mills, an' tha's what broke th' strike.'

'Then he ought not to have been in the Union?' suggested Margaret.

'Sometimes to get th' job done, one 'ad t' get caught up or crushed along th' way. It's th' way o' things an' can't be avoided; just as th' plough crushes th' daisy in th' field. Boucher is worse than a daisy, but crushed, all th' same. 'Appen I'm just angry wi' 'im right now an' don't speak fair, but I should like t' crush 'im with my plough.'

'Why? What has he done? Something more since the riot?' asked Margaret, with concern.

'Ay. 'E sparked tha' riot, then goes off into 'iding because th' law is looking t' round 'im up, but then Thornton drops th' charges on th' conspirators, so Boucher comes crawlin' back. He 'ad th' grace t' keep hisself shut up for a day or two, but then 'e comes out an' goes to Hampers! axing fo' work! Says 'e won't pay into Union, nor help a clemmn' neighbour, after all we did for 'is lot; th' Judas! But Hamper tells him no an' 'e went off cryin' like a baby!' There was no sympathy or remorse in Higgins' voice, and Margaret was quite shocked by it.

'But, Nicholas!' cried she. 'Do you not see that you made him this way? You forced him into the Union against his will; he'll show it no loyalty. You made him what he is.'

There they were interrupted by a continual tramp which made its way steadily along the lane, and Isabel felt a heavy dread set in the pit of her stomach. She had known it was coming, but foresight could not prepare her for what would be. Out in the street, people gathered about their beaten doors, and faces peered on anxiously, as six men walked – a door, taken off its hinges – resting upon their shoulders; a body lying lifelessly atop. The deeper they walked into the hovel of tumbled houses, the more faces appeared at doors and windows, spewing onto the street; all drawn as a moth to a flame; an irresistible curiosity about their wretched faces. And as the six men tramped their way through the houses – their feet sounding in one monotonous movement – faces dropped to the floor with shame and shock; sorrow and despair filling the air. The brave would call out to the bearers, questioning them as to what had happened and who they bore, and each answer was given in that tired, emotionless way; so often had they stopped to tell their tale.

'Found him in th' brook – behind th' field.'

'Th' brook!' called a neighbour. 'Th' brook's not enough water t' drown a man!'

'He was determined. Lay down in th' brook; sick o' livin'.'

Now Higgins was at his door, looking out onto that sombre scene; Margaret at his elbow. Mr Hale stood back, a sorry shake of his head, as the battered door glided closer, sailing on the shoulders of those six bearers.

'It's not!' frowned Higgins, a wary step backwards. 'It's ne'er John Boucher!' trembled he. 'He 'asn't the' guts t' kill hisself. Why are they all lookin' this way? It's ne'er John Boucher!' But it was John Boucher, and his body was laid gently upon the ground, as one of the bearers moved towards Higgins. Once lowered, the stained face of Boucher – drowned in the inky waters from the dye-works – lay swollen and purple; his eyes wide, hair sodden. Margaret knew that it was he, despite his sorry disfigurement, and she immediately hastened to cover that alarming face with her handkerchief, before hastily stepping away. And there Nicholas Higgins stood; struck dumb at the door to his house; too shocked to move or speak, until one of the bearers was stood before him.

'Higgins, yo' knowed him! Yo' must go an' tell the wife. Go quick, man, an' tell her afore she hears it in the street; we canna leave him 'ere.'

'I canna go!' pleaded Higgins. 'We wasn't friends; I canna face her!'

'Well, someone mun. Every minutes he lies here, there's a chance she hears of it in some rough way.'

'Papa, should you go?' asked Margaret, carefully. But although her father – as a former parson – was no stranger to death, he was so wholly unprepared, and so weak of spirit at losing his own wife, that he could only shake his head. And Isabel; she knew she ought to offer – that Margaret had just lost her mother, and should never have to take up such a sorrowful commission – but she was ill-equipped to talk of death, and so she let herself remain unseen, beside the nearly-felled Higgins.

'Then I shall go,' replied Margaret, compelled by her kindly Christian spirit, and she took herself off to that dreary little house – the sickly wife and the six starving children – to tell them that John Boucher had drowned himself.

Now, as Mr Hale stood aimlessly about the body – awaiting his daughter's return – Nicholas Higgins turned to take himself indoors. He slid the bolt across the door, as he barred himself to the shame he had wrought upon the street, for ringing in his ears were Margaret's last words to him; that he had made John Boucher what he was, and the guilt was keen; the sting deep and biting. Dazed as he was, he had not noticed that Isabel had entered his house before him, and was now stood about the corner of the room, watching that proud man as he slumped upon the house table.

'Nicholas?' called Isabel, tentatively, and he looked up sharply, his eyes vicious at the interruption.

'What's yo' doin' in my 'ouse?' demanded the weaver, gruffly.

'I could not look at him,' replied she; although this was only a half-truth.

'Nor can I! I canna look a' anyone, so be off; outta my 'ouse, wench!' She smiled at him; she was no Margaret Hale; he would not hold his sharp tongue for her, and the smile confused him, for he thought her a lady, too – though she never behaved like a lady. Never had she spoken of charity or religion. Always, she had listened; he had discerned with his keen eye, the avid attention of another, but she was not the ready listener he had found in Margaret. She would listen and remember, but he knew she did not agree. He would have preferred for her to argue with him; to say her piece and have it out, but always, she sat quietly, listening, whilst Margaret talked; just as she had done today. But now! Now she was in his home – uninvited – and she merely smiled at his impertinence.

'May I sit down?'

'Appen yo' will, anyway, seein' as yo'r 'ere uninvited.'

'Very true.' And she pulled up the chair beside him and seated herself quite casually; his assessing eyes watching her all the while.

'If yo 'ave sommat t' say, yo's best be sayin' it an' getting' gone.'

'Boucher was your daisy, Nicholas. You said as much; to progress, some have to get caught in the plough. That is all that's happened. You only feel it differently, because you thought yourself indifferent to this particular daisy, but you are not. You are human; it's only natural that you should feel the catch of that daisy in the plough. The weak proletariat will always fall, and Boucher was weak. He had not the bravery to stand against the Union, nor with the Union. He had not the strength to provide, nor support his family. There was nothing to be done. Had he not been with the Union, the mill would have still closed; then where should he be? No strike pay? No neighbours to feed his children when they starve? There was nothing to be done, Nicholas. Your kind – you thinking, striving men – were simply too strong for his weak kind. Whenever there is change – a movement of bodies all striving for better – the weak will fall aside, just as your daisies get caught in the plough. It is a sadness; it seems a cruelty, but it is the way of the world. Hold up your head, Nicholas, and think of the wife and children. If you feel at fault, offer them neighbourly assistance, but think on it no more.' He looked to her; such a strange way of thinking, he thought to himself. Not as any woman would.

'I'm thinking yo'r a strange lass.' There, she smiled again.

'Now work, Nicholas; you must have work.'

'I'll not go against th' Union!' warned he, a gruff voice and pointed look.

'I should not think you have to; Marlborough Mills.'

'Thornton! He's the fiercest of them all!'

'Yes, but he is fair. I happen to know he would not trench upon a man; would not tell him how to spend his money. I know it for a fact. Now, your Hamper – I cannot speak for him – but he is one, and Thornton is another. Your rabble-rousing ways will have to stop, my friend; you cannot go stirring up trouble – even if you do happen to be a fine speaker. I should think you may pay into your fund; he shan't dictate how you spend your own money, but if you undermine his business by trying to bring about a strike, no doubt you'll lose your place and quick.'

'I'll not go cap in 'and t' Thornton!'

'I'm to start working at Marlborough Mills soon – a week or so, I should expect. Mr Thornton's opening an infirmary for his workers; free for the children, a pittance for the adults. He wants healthy workers, just as he did with his wheel.' When there came no reply, Isabel looked to him knowingly. 'Did not you send your Bessy to Marlborough Mills because of the wheel? You and Mr Thornton both value health. To me, he sounds like a far fairer Master than Hamper, and you went cap in hand to him, at your own admission!'

'Appen I'll think on it.'

'Think on it, and then do it; I've a feeling you and Mr Thornton would make a fine team; especially with that brain of yours.' And she smiled indulgently to herself, stood from the table, pulled back the bolt, and slipped from the house. She heard the unmistakable grating of the bolt as it was slid back in place, and came upon the sorry scene of the bereaved, just as Margaret was making towards Higgins' house.

'He is struck low and wishes to be alone. We have spoken, but now he has bolted the door and shall see no one,' announced Isabel. Margaret, understanding Higgins' disturbed feelings, could only nod in acquiescence, and urge her discomposed father home.