Hard Times
Mr. Gradgrind overwhelmed him with thanks, of course; and hinted as
delicately as he could, at a handsome remuneration in money.
‘I don’t want money mythelf, Thquire; but Childerth ith a family man, and
if you wath to like to offer him a five-pound note, it mightn’t be
unactheptable. Likewithe if you wath to thtand a collar for the dog, or
a thet of bellth for the horthe, I thould be very glad to take ’em.
Brandy and water I alwayth take.’ He had already called for a glass, and
now called for another. ‘If you wouldn’t think it going too far,
Thquire, to make a little thpread for the company at about three and
thixth ahead, not reckoning Luth, it would make ’em happy.’
All these little tokens of his gratitude, Mr. Gradgrind very willingly
undertook to render. Though he thought them far too slight, he said, for
such a service.
‘Very well, Thquire; then, if you’ll only give a Horthe-riding, a
bethpeak, whenever you can, you’ll more than balanthe the account. Now,
Thquire, if your daughter will ethcuthe me, I thould like one parting
word with you.’
Louisa and Sissy withdrew into an adjoining room; Mr. Sleary, stirring
and drinking his brandy and water as he stood, went on:
‘Thquire,—you don’t need to be told that dogth ith wonderful animalth.’
‘Their instinct,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘is surprising.’
‘Whatever you call it—and I’m bletht if _I_ know what to call it’—said
Sleary, ‘it ith athtonithing. The way in whith a dog’ll find you—the
dithtanthe he’ll come!’
‘His scent,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘being so fine.’
‘I’m bletht if I know what to call it,’ repeated Sleary, shaking his
head, ‘but I have had dogth find me, Thquire, in a way that made me think
whether that dog hadn’t gone to another dog, and thed, “You don’t happen
to know a perthon of the name of Thleary, do you? Perthon of the name of
Thleary, in the Horthe-Riding way—thtout man—game eye?” And whether that
dog mightn’t have thed, “Well, I can’t thay I know him mythelf, but I
know a dog that I think would be likely to be acquainted with him.” And
whether that dog mightn’t have thought it over, and thed, “Thleary,
Thleary! O yeth, to be thure! A friend of mine menthioned him to me at
one time. I can get you hith addreth directly.” In conthequenth of my
being afore the public, and going about tho muth, you thee, there mutht
be a number of dogth acquainted with me, Thquire, that _I_ don’t know!’
Mr. Gradgrind seemed to be quite confounded by this speculation.
‘Any way,’ said Sleary, after putting his lips to his brandy and water,
‘ith fourteen month ago, Thquire, thinthe we wath at Chethter. We wath
getting up our Children in the Wood one morning, when there cometh into
our Ring, by the thtage door, a dog. He had travelled a long way, he
wath in a very bad condithon, he wath lame, and pretty well blind. He
went round to our children, one after another, as if he wath a theeking
for a child he know’d; and then he come to me, and throwd hithelf up
behind, and thtood on hith two forelegth, weak ath he wath, and then he
wagged hith tail and died. Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth.’
‘Sissy’s father’s dog!’
‘Thethilia’th father’th old dog. Now, Thquire, I can take my oath, from
my knowledge of that dog, that that man wath dead—and buried—afore that
dog come back to me. Joth’phine and Childerth and me talked it over a
long time, whether I thould write or not. But we agreed, “No. There’th
nothing comfortable to tell; why unthettle her mind, and make her
unhappy?” Tho, whether her father bathely detherted her; or whether he
broke hith own heart alone, rather than pull her down along with him;
never will be known, now, Thquire, till—no, not till we know how the
dogth findth uth out!’
‘She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, to this hour; and she will
believe in his affection to the last moment of her life,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind.
‘It theemth to prethent two thingth to a perthon, don’t it, Thquire?’
said Mr. Sleary, musing as he looked down into the depths of his brandy
and water: ‘one, that there ith a love in the world, not all
Thelf-interetht after all, but thomething very different; t’other, that
it hath a way of ith own of calculating or not calculating, whith
thomehow or another ith at leatht ath hard to give a name to, ath the
wayth of the dogth ith!’
Mr. Gradgrind looked out of window, and made no reply. Mr. Sleary
emptied his glass and recalled the ladies.
‘Thethilia my dear, kith me and good-bye! Mith Thquire, to thee you
treating of her like a thithter, and a thithter that you trutht and
honour with all your heart and more, ith a very pretty thight to me. I
hope your brother may live to be better detherving of you, and a greater
comfort to you. Thquire, thake handth, firtht and latht! Don’t be croth
with uth poor vagabondth. People mutht be amuthed. They can’t be
alwayth a learning, nor yet they can’t be alwayth a working, they an’t
made for it. You _mutht_ have uth, Thquire. Do the withe thing and the
kind thing too, and make the betht of uth; not the wurtht!’
‘And I never thought before,’ said Mr. Sleary, putting his head in at the
door again to say it, ‘that I wath tho muth of a Cackler!’
CHAPTER IX
FINAL
IT is a dangerous thing to see anything in the sphere of a vain
blusterer, before the vain blusterer sees it himself. Mr. Bounderby felt
that Mrs. Sparsit had audaciously anticipated him, and presumed to be
wiser than he. Inappeasably indignant with her for her triumphant
discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he turned this presumption, on the part of a
woman in her dependent position, over and over in his mind, until it
accumulated with turning like a great snowball. At last he made the
discovery that to discharge this highly connected female—to have it in
his power to say, ‘She was a woman of family, and wanted to stick to me,
but I wouldn’t have it, and got rid of her’—would be to get the utmost
possible amount of crowning glory out of the connection, and at the same
time to punish Mrs. Sparsit according to her deserts.
Filled fuller than ever, with this great idea, Mr. Bounderby came in to
lunch, and sat himself down in the dining-room of former days, where his
portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by the fire, with her foot in her cotton
stirrup, little thinking whither she was posting.
Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had covered her pity for Mr.
Bounderby with a veil of quiet melancholy and contrition. In virtue
thereof, it had become her habit to assume a woful look, which woful look
she now bestowed upon her patron.
‘What’s the matter now, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bounderby, in a very short,
rough way.
‘Pray, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘do not bite my nose off.’
‘Bite your nose off, ma’am?’ repeated Mr. Bounderby. ‘_Your_ nose!’
meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed a nose for
the purpose. After which offensive implication, he cut himself a crust
of bread, and threw the knife down with a noise.
Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of her stirrup, and said, ‘Mr. Bounderby,
sir!’
‘Well, ma’am?’ retorted Mr. Bounderby. ‘What are you staring at?’
‘May I ask, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘have you been ruffled this
morning?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘May I inquire, sir,’ pursued the injured woman, ‘whether _I_ am the
unfortunate cause of your having lost your temper?’
‘Now, I’ll tell you what, ma’am,’ said Bounderby, ‘I am not come here to
be bullied. A female may be highly connected, but she can’t be permitted
to bother and badger a man in my position, and I am not going to put up
with it.’ (Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to get on: foreseeing that if
he allowed of details, he would be beaten.)
Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows;
gathered up her work into its proper basket; and rose.
‘Sir,’ said she, majestically. ‘It is apparent to me that I am in your
way at present. I will retire to my own apartment.’
‘Allow me to open the door, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself.’
‘You had better allow me, ma’am,’ said Bounderby, passing her, and
getting his hand upon the lock; ‘because I can take the opportunity of
saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I rather think
you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me, that, under my
humble roof, there’s hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in
other people’s affairs.’
Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and said with great
politeness, ‘Really, sir?’
‘I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late affairs have
happened, ma’am,’ said Bounderby; ‘and it appears to my poor judgment—’
‘Oh! Pray, sir,’ Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness,
‘don’t disparage your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr.
Bounderby’s judgment is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the
theme of general conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your
judgment, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing.
Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed:
‘It appears to me, ma’am, I say, that a different sort of establishment
altogether would bring out a lady of _your_ powers. Such an
establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers’s, now. Don’t you think
you might find some affairs there, ma’am, to interfere with?’
‘It never occurred to me before, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit; ‘but now
you mention it, should think it highly probable.’
‘Then suppose you try, ma’am,’ said Bounderby, laying an envelope with a
cheque in it in her little basket. ‘You can take your own time for
going, ma’am; but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to
a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by herself, and not to be
intruded upon. I really ought to apologise to you—being only Josiah
Bounderby of Coketown—for having stood in your light so long.’
‘Pray don’t name it, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit. ‘If that portrait
could speak, sir—but it has the advantage over the original of not
possessing the power of committing itself and disgusting others,—it would
testify, that a long period has elapsed since I first habitually
addressed it as the picture of a Noodle. Nothing that a Noodle does, can
awaken surprise or indignation; the proceedings of a Noodle can only
inspire contempt.’
Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Roman features like a medal struck to
commemorate her scorn of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed him fixedly from head to
foot, swept disdainfully past him, and ascended the staircase. Mr.
Bounderby closed the door, and stood before the fire; projecting himself
after his old explosive manner into his portrait—and into futurity.
* * * * *
Into how much of futurity? He saw Mrs. Sparsit fighting out a daily
fight at the points of all the weapons in the female armoury, with the
grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting Lady Scadgers, still laid up in
bed with her mysterious leg, and gobbling her insufficient income down by
about the middle of every quarter, in a mean little airless lodging, a
mere closet for one, a mere crib for two; but did he see more? Did he
catch any glimpse of himself making a show of Bitzer to strangers, as the
rising young man, so devoted to his master’s great merits, who had won
young Tom’s place, and had almost captured young Tom himself, in the
times when by various rascals he was spirited away? Did he see any faint
reflection of his own image making a vain-glorious will, whereby
five-and-twenty Humbugs, past five-and-fifty years of age, each taking
upon himself the name, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, should for ever dine
in Bounderby Hall, for ever lodge in Bounderby buildings, for ever attend
a Bounderby chapel, for ever go to sleep under a Bounderby chaplain, for