Hard Times
cherishes one another in their distresses wi’ what they need
themseln—like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw
his travels can beat—will never do ’t till th’ Sun turns t’ ice. Most o’
aw, rating ’em as so much Power, and reg’latin ’em as if they was figures
in a soom, or machines: wi’out loves and likens, wi’out memories and
inclinations, wi’out souls to weary and souls to hope—when aw goes quiet,
draggin on wi’ ’em as if they’d nowt o’ th’ kind, and when aw goes
onquiet, reproachin ’em for their want o’ sitch humanly feelins in their
dealins wi’ yo—this will never do ’t, sir, till God’s work is onmade.’
Stephen stood with the open door in his hand, waiting to know if anything
more were expected of him.
‘Just stop a moment,’ said Mr. Bounderby, excessively red in the face.
‘I told you, the last time you were here with a grievance, that you had
better turn about and come out of that. And I also told you, if you
remember, that I was up to the gold spoon look-out.’
‘I were not up to ’t myseln, sir; I do assure yo.’
‘Now it’s clear to me,’ said Mr. Bounderby, ‘that you are one of those
chaps who have always got a grievance. And you go about, sowing it and
raising crops. That’s the business of _your_ life, my friend.’
Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting that indeed he had other
business to do for his life.
‘You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-conditioned chap, you see,’ said
Mr. Bounderby, ‘that even your own Union, the men who know you best, will
have nothing to do with you. I never thought those fellows could be
right in anything; but I tell you what! I so far go along with them for
a novelty, that _I_’ll have nothing to do with you either.’
Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face.
‘You can finish off what you’re at,’ said Mr. Bounderby, with a meaning
nod, ‘and then go elsewhere.’
‘Sir, yo know weel,’ said Stephen expressively, ‘that if I canna get work
wi’ yo, I canna get it elsewheer.’
The reply was, ‘What I know, I know; and what you know, you know. I have
no more to say about it.’
Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her eyes were raised to his no more;
therefore, with a sigh, and saying, barely above his breath, ‘Heaven help
us aw in this world!’ he departed.
CHAPTER VI
FADING AWAY
IT was falling dark when Stephen came out of Mr. Bounderby’s house. The
shadows of night had gathered so fast, that he did not look about him
when he closed the door, but plodded straight along the street. Nothing
was further from his thoughts than the curious old woman he had
encountered on his previous visit to the same house, when he heard a step
behind him that he knew, and turning, saw her in Rachael’s company.
He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her only.
‘Ah, Rachael, my dear! Missus, thou wi’ her!’
‘Well, and now you are surprised to be sure, and with reason I must say,’
the old woman returned. ‘Here I am again, you see.’
‘But how wi’ Rachael?’ said Stephen, falling into their step, walking
between them, and looking from the one to the other.
‘Why, I come to be with this good lass pretty much as I came to be with
you,’ said the old woman, cheerfully, taking the reply upon herself. ‘My
visiting time is later this year than usual, for I have been rather
troubled with shortness of breath, and so put it off till the weather was
fine and warm. For the same reason I don’t make all my journey in one
day, but divide it into two days, and get a bed to-night at the
Travellers’ Coffee House down by the railroad (a nice clean house), and
go back Parliamentary, at six in the morning. Well, but what has this to
do with this good lass, says you? I’m going to tell you. I have heard
of Mr. Bounderby being married. I read it in the paper, where it looked
grand—oh, it looked fine!’ the old woman dwelt on it with strange
enthusiasm: ‘and I want to see his wife. I have never seen her yet.
Now, if you’ll believe me, she hasn’t come out of that house since noon
to-day. So not to give her up too easily, I was waiting about, a little
last bit more, when I passed close to this good lass two or three times;
and her face being so friendly I spoke to her, and she spoke to me.
There!’ said the old woman to Stephen, ‘you can make all the rest out for
yourself now, a deal shorter than I can, I dare say!’
Once again, Stephen had to conquer an instinctive propensity to dislike
this old woman, though her manner was as honest and simple as a manner
possibly could be. With a gentleness that was as natural to him as he
knew it to be to Rachael, he pursued the subject that interested her in
her old age.
‘Well, missus,’ said he, ‘I ha seen the lady, and she were young and
hansom. Wi’ fine dark thinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as I ha
never seen the like on.’
‘Young and handsome. Yes!’ cried the old woman, quite delighted. ‘As
bonny as a rose! And what a happy wife!’
‘Aye, missus, I suppose she be,’ said Stephen. But with a doubtful
glance at Rachael.
‘Suppose she be? She must be. She’s your master’s wife,’ returned the
old woman.
Stephen nodded assent. ‘Though as to master,’ said he, glancing again at
Rachael, ‘not master onny more. That’s aw enden ’twixt him and me.’
‘Have you left his work, Stephen?’ asked Rachael, anxiously and quickly.
‘Why, Rachael,’ he replied, ‘whether I ha lef’n his work, or whether his
work ha lef’n me, cooms t’ th’ same. His work and me are parted. ’Tis
as weel so—better, I were thinkin when yo coom up wi’ me. It would ha
brought’n trouble upon trouble if I had stayed theer. Haply ’tis a
kindness to monny that I go; haply ’tis a kindness to myseln; anyways it
mun be done. I mun turn my face fro Coketown fur th’ time, and seek a
fort’n, dear, by beginnin fresh.’
‘Where will you go, Stephen?’
‘I donno t’night,’ said he, lifting off his hat, and smoothing his thin
hair with the flat of his hand. ‘But I’m not goin t’night, Rachael, nor
yet t’morrow. ’Tan’t easy overmuch t’ know wheer t’ turn, but a good
heart will coom to me.’
Herein, too, the sense of even thinking unselfishly aided him. Before he
had so much as closed Mr. Bounderby’s door, he had reflected that at
least his being obliged to go away was good for her, as it would save her
from the chance of being brought into question for not withdrawing from
him. Though it would cost him a hard pang to leave her, and though he
could think of no similar place in which his condemnation would not
pursue him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced away from the
endurance of the last four days, even to unknown difficulties and
distresses.
So he said, with truth, ‘I’m more leetsome, Rachael, under ’t, than I
could’n ha believed.’ It was not her part to make his burden heavier.
She answered with her comforting smile, and the three walked on together.
Age, especially when it strives to be self-reliant and cheerful, finds
much consideration among the poor. The old woman was so decent and
contented, and made so light of her infirmities, though they had
increased upon her since her former interview with Stephen, that they
both took an interest in her. She was too sprightly to allow of their
walking at a slow pace on her account, but she was very grateful to be
talked to, and very willing to talk to any extent: so, when they came to
their part of the town, she was more brisk and vivacious than ever.
‘Come to my poor place, missus,’ said Stephen, ‘and tak a coop o’ tea.
Rachael will coom then; and arterwards I’ll see thee safe t’ thy
Travellers’ lodgin. ’T may be long, Rachael, ere ever I ha th’ chance o’
thy coompany agen.’
They complied, and the three went on to the house where he lodged. When
they turned into a narrow street, Stephen glanced at his window with a
dread that always haunted his desolate home; but it was open, as he had
left it, and no one was there. The evil spirit of his life had flitted
away again, months ago, and he had heard no more of her since. The only
evidence of her last return now, were the scantier moveables in his room,
and the grayer hair upon his head.
He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got hot water from
below, and brought in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and some
butter from the nearest shop. The bread was new and crusty, the butter
fresh, and the sugar lump, of course—in fulfilment of the standard
testimony of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes,
sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borrowing
of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse
of sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a
wide heath before him, enjoyed the meal—again in corroboration of the
magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of
these people, sir.
‘I ha never thowt yet, missus,’ said Stephen, ‘o’ askin thy name.’
The old lady announced herself as ‘Mrs. Pegler.’
‘A widder, I think?’ said Stephen.
‘Oh, many long years!’ Mrs. Pegler’s husband (one of the best on record)
was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler’s calculation, when Stephen was born.
‘’Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one,’ said Stephen. ‘Onny
children?’
Mrs. Pegler’s cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted
some nervousness on her part. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not now, not now.’
‘Dead, Stephen,’ Rachael softly hinted.
‘I’m sooary I ha spok’n on ’t,’ said Stephen, ‘I ought t’ hadn in my mind
as I might touch a sore place. I—I blame myseln.’
While he excused himself, the old lady’s cup rattled more and more. ‘I
had a son,’ she said, curiously distressed, and not by any of the usual
appearances of sorrow; ‘and he did well, wonderfully well. But he is not
to be spoken of if you please. He is—’ Putting down her cup, she moved
her hands as if she would have added, by her action, ‘dead!’ Then she
said aloud, ‘I have lost him.’
Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given the old lady pain,
when his landlady came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and calling him to
the door, whispered in his ear. Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, for
she caught a word as it was uttered.
‘Bounderby!’ she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the
table. ‘Oh hide me! Don’t let me be seen for the world. Don’t let him
come up till I’ve got away. Pray, pray!’ She trembled, and was
excessively agitated; getting behind Rachael, when Rachael tried to
reassure her; and not seeming to know what she was about.
‘But hearken, missus, hearken,’ said Stephen, astonished. ‘’Tisn’t Mr.
Bounderby; ’tis his wife. Yo’r not fearfo’ o’ her. Yo was hey-go-mad
about her, but an hour sin.’
‘But are you sure it’s the lady, and not the gentleman?’ she asked, still
trembling.
‘Certain sure!’
‘Well then, pray don’t speak to me, nor yet take any notice of me,’ said
the old woman. ‘Let me be quite to myself in this corner.’
Stephen nodded; looking to Rachael for an explanation, which she was
quite unable to give him; took the candle, went downstairs, and in a few
moments returned, lighting Louisa into the room. She was followed by the
whelp.
Rachael had risen, and stood apart with her shawl and bonnet in her hand,
when Stephen, himself profoundly astonished by this visit, put the candle
on the table. Then he too stood, with his doubled hand upon the table
near it, waiting to be addressed.
For the first time in her life Louisa had come into one of the dwellings
of the Coketown Hands; for the first time in her life she was face to
face with anything like individuality in connection with them. She knew
of their existence by hundreds and by thousands. She knew what results
in work a given number of them would produce in a given space of time.