So they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a
small court, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy said, 'Yo'll not be daunted if father's at home, and speaks a bit
gruffish at first. He took a mind to ye, yo' see, and he thought
a deal o' your coming to see us; and just because he liked yo' he
were vexed and put about.' 'Don't fear, Bessy.' But Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A great
slatternly girl, not so old as Bessy, but taller and stronger,
was busy at the wash-tub, knocking about the furniture in a rough
capable way, but altogether making so much noise that Margaret
shrunk, out of sympathy with poor Bessy, who had sat down on the
first chair, as if completely tired out with her walk. Margaret
asked the sister for a cup of water, and while she ran to fetch
it (knocking down the fire-irons, and tumbling over a chair in
her way), she unloosed Bessy's bonnet strings, to relieve her
catching breath.
'Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?' gasped
Bessy, at last. Margaret did not speak, but held the water to her
lips. Bessy took a long and feverish draught, and then fell back
and shut her eyes. Margaret heard her murmur to herself: 'They
shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the
sun light on them, nor any heat.' Margaret bent over and said, 'Bessy, don't be impatient with your
life, whatever it is--or may have been. Remember who gave it you,
and made it what it is!' She was startled by hearing Nicholas
speak behind her; he had come in without her noticing him.
'Now, I'll not have my wench preached to. She's bad enough as it
is, with her dreams and her methodee fancies, and her visions of
cities with goulden gates and precious stones. But if it amuses
her I let it abe, but I'm none going to have more stuff poured
into her.' 'But surely,' said Margaret, facing round, 'you believe in what I
said, that God gave her life, and ordered what kind of life it
was to be?' 'I believe what I see, and no more. That's what I believe, young
woman. I don't believe all I hear--no! not by a big deal. I did
hear a young lass make an ado about knowing where we lived, and
coming to see us. And my wench here thought a deal about it, and
flushed up many a time, when hoo little knew as I was looking at
her, at the sound of a strange step. But hoo's come at last,--and
hoo's welcome, as long as hoo'll keep from preaching on what hoo
knows nought about.' Bessy had been watching Margaret's face; she
half sate up to speak now, laying her hand on Margaret's arm with
a gesture of entreaty. 'Don't be vexed wi' him--there's many a
one thinks like him; many and many a one here. If yo' could hear
them speak, yo'd not be shocked at him; he's a rare good man, is
father--but oh!' said she, falling back in despair, 'what he says
at times makes me long to die more than ever, for I want to know
so many things, and am so tossed about wi' wonder.' 'Poor wench--poor old wench,--I'm loth to vex thee, I am; but a
man mun speak out for the truth, and when I see the world going
all wrong at this time o' day, bothering itself wi' things it
knows nought about, and leaving undone all the things that lie in
disorder close at its hand--why, I say, leave a' this talk about
religion alone, and set to work on what yo' see and know. That's
my creed. It's simple, and not far to fetch, nor hard to work.' But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.