"Nay, ma'am," said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the words that had been used, and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa after glancing at her face. "Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know and feel. But there's not a dozen men amoong 'em, ma'am--a dozen? not six--but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha' known and had'n experience o' these men aw my life--I, that ha' ett'n an' droonken wi' em, an' seet'n wi' 'em, and toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha' doon to me what they may!"
He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character--deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to his class under all their mistrust--but he fully remembered where he was and did not even raise his voice.
"No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different."
"In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it."
"How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fo'k seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient, too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us."
"No, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to anyone else, "if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."
"Sir, I am sure on 't."
"Here's a gentleman from London present"--Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb--"a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it--for I know precious well beforehand what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice--instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth."
Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face.
"Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby.
"I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for."
"What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?"
Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind.
"Sir, I were never good at showin' o' 't, though I ha' had'n my share in feeling o' 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town--so rich as 'tis--and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein' heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a-goin', and how they never works us no nigher to onny dis'ant object--'ceptin awlus Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha' growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?"
"Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights."
"I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak' upon themseln, sir, if not to do 't?"
"I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half-a-dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements."
Stephen gravely shook his head.
"Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!"
"Sir," returned Stephen, with a quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak' a hundred Slackbridges--aw as there is, an' aw the number ten times towd--an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha' we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by them the troubles's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' them 't commences. I ha' no favour for 'em--I ha' no reason to favour 'em--but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin' them fro' their trade, 'stead o' takin' their trade fro' them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."
Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire, and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.
"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this--though some working-men o' this town could, above my powers--but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak' one side, unnat'rally awlus and forever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and forever wrong will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin' alone will never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sitch-like misery can last. Not drawin' nigh to fo'k, wi' kindness and patience an' cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so 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 feelin's in their dealin's wi' you--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 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 tonight 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 today. 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 dunno 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.
"Coom 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 greyer 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. Yor 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. She knew them in crowds passing to and from their nests, like ants or beetles. But she knew from her reading infinitely more of the ways of toiling insects than of these toiling men and women.