Hard Times

by Dickens, Charles

  '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.

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  '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. 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.

  Something to be worked so much and paid so much, and there ended;

  something to be infallibly settled by laws of supply and demand;

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  something that blundered against those laws, and floundered into

  difficulty; something that was a little pinched when wheat was

  dear, and over-ate itself when wheat was cheap; something that

  increased at such a rate of percentage, and yielded such another

  percentage of crime, and such another percentage of pauperism;

  something wholesale, of which vast fortunes were made; something

  that occasionally rose like a sea, and did some harm and waste

  (chiefly to itself), and fell again; this she knew the Coketown

  Hands to be. But, she had scarcely thought more of separating them

  into units, than of separating the sea itself into its component

  drops.

  She stood for some moments looking round the room. From the few

  chairs, the few books, the common prints, and the bed, she glanced

  to the two women, and to Stephen.

  'I have come to speak to you, in consequence of what passed just

  now. I should like to be serviceable to you, if you will let me.

  Is this your wife?'

  Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently answered no, and

  dropped again.

  'I remember,' said Louisa, reddening at her mistake; 'I recollect,

  now, to have heard your domestic misfortunes spoken of, though I

  was not attending to the particulars at the time. It was not my

  meaning to ask a question that would give pain to any one here. If

  I should ask any other question that may happen to have that

  result, give me credit, if you please, for being in ignorance how

  to speak to you as I ought.'

  As Stephen had but a little while ago instinctively addressed

  himself to her, so she now instinctively addressed herself to

  Rachael. Her manner was short and abrupt, yet faltering and timid.

  'He has told you what has passed between himself and my husband?

  You would be his first resource, I think.'

  'I have heard the end of it, young lady,' said Rachael.

  'Did I understand, that, being rejected by one employer, he would

  probably be rejected by all? I thought he said as much?'

  'The chances are very small, young lady - next to nothing - for a

  man who gets a bad name among them.'

  'What shall I understand that you mean by a bad name?'

  'The name of being troublesome.'

  'Then, by the prejudices of his own class, and by the prejudices of

  the other, he is sacrificed alike? Are the two so deeply separated

  in this town, that there is no place whatever for an honest workman

  between them?'

  Rachael shook her head in silence.

  'He fell into suspicion,' said Louisa, 'with his fellow-weavers,

  because - he had made a promise not to be one of them. I think it

  must have been to you that he made that promise. Might I ask you

  why he made it?'

  Rachael burst into tears. 'I didn't seek it of him, poor lad. I

  prayed him to avoid trouble for his own good, little thinking he'd

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  come to it through me. But I know he'd die a hundred deaths, ere

  ever he'd break his word. I know that of him well.'

  Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in his usual thoughtful

  attitude, with his hand at his chin. He now spoke in a voice

  rather less steady than usual.

  'No one, excepting myseln, can ever know what honour, an' what

  love, an' respect, I bear to Rachael, or wi' what cause. When I

  passed that promess, I towd her true, she were th' Angel o' my

  life. 'Twere a solemn promess. 'Tis gone fro' me, for ever.'

  Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it with a deference that

  was new in her. She looked from him to Rachael, and her features

  softened. 'What will you do?' she asked him. And her voice had

  softened too.

  'Weel, ma'am,' said Stephen, ma
king the best of it, with a smile;

  'when I ha finished off, I mun quit this part, and try another.

  Fortnet or misfortnet, a man can but try; there's nowt to be done

  wi'out tryin' - cept laying down and dying.'

  'How will you travel?'

  'Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot.'

  Louisa coloured, and a purse appeared in her hand. The rustling of

  a bank-note was audible, as she unfolded one and laid it on the

  table.

  'Rachael, will you tell him - for you know how, without offence -

  that this is freely his, to help him on his way? Will you entreat

  him to take it?'

  'I canna do that, young lady,' she answered, turning her head

  aside. 'Bless you for thinking o' the poor lad wi' such

  tenderness. But 'tis for him to know his heart, and what is right

  according to it.'

  Louisa looked, in part incredulous, in part frightened, in part

  overcome with quick sympathy, when this man of so much selfcommand,

  who had been so plain and steady through the late

  interview, lost his composure in a moment, and now stood with his

  hand before his face. She stretched out hers, as if she would have

  touched him; then checked herself, and remained still.

  'Not e'en Rachael,' said Stephen, when he stood again with his face

  uncovered, 'could mak sitch a kind offerin, by onny words, kinder.

  T' show that I'm not a man wi'out reason and gratitude, I'll tak

  two pound. I'll borrow 't for t' pay 't back. 'Twill be the

  sweetest work as ever I ha done, that puts it in my power t'

  acknowledge once more my lastin thankfulness for this present

  action.'

  She was fain to take up the note again, and to substitute the much

  smaller sum he had named. He was neither courtly, nor handsome,

  nor picturesque, in any respect; and yet his manner of accepting

  it, and of expressing his thanks without more words, had a grace in

  it that Lord Chesterfield could not have taught his son in a

  century.

  Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one leg and sucking his walkingstick

  with sufficient unconcern, until the visit had attained this

  stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got up, rather

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  hurriedly, and put in a word.

  'Just wait a moment, Loo! Before we go, I should like to speak to

  him a moment. Something comes into my head. If you'll step out on

  the stairs, Blackpool, I'll mention it. Never mind a light, man!'

  Tom was remarkably impatient of his moving towards the cupboard, to

  get one. 'It don't want a light.'

  Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed the room door, and held

  the lock in his hand.

  'I say!' he whispered. 'I think I can do you a good turn. Don't

  ask me what it is, because it may not come to anything. But

  there's no harm in my trying.'

  His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen's ear, it was so

  hot.

  'That was our light porter at the Bank,' said Tom, 'who brought you

  the message to-night. I call him our light porter, because I

  belong to the Bank too.'

  Stephen thought, 'What a hurry he is in!' He spoke so confusedly.

  'Well!' said Tom. 'Now look here! When are you off?'

  'T' day's Monday,' replied Stephen, considering. 'Why, sir, Friday

  or Saturday, nigh 'bout.'

  'Friday or Saturday,' said Tom. 'Now look here! I am not sure

  that I can do you the good turn I want to do you - that's my

  sister, you know, in your room - but I may be able to, and if I

  should not be able to, there's no harm done. So I tell you what.

  You'll know our light porter again?'

  'Yes, sure,' said Stephen.

  'Very well,' returned Tom. 'When you leave work of a night,

  between this and your going away, just hang about the Bank an hour

  or so, will you? Don't take on, as if you meant anything, if he

  should see you hanging about there; because I shan't put him up to

  speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to do

  you. In that case he'll have a note or a message for you, but not

  else. Now look here! You are sure you understand.'

  He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a button-hole of

  Stephen's coat, and was screwing that corner of the garment tight

  up round and round, in an extraordinary manner.

  'I understand, sir,' said Stephen.

  'Now look here!' repeated Tom. 'Be sure you don't make any mistake

  then, and don't forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what

  I have in view, and she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're

  all right, are you? You understand all about it? Very well then.

  Come along, Loo!'

  He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not return

  into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow stairs. He

  was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the street

  before she could take his arm.

  Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and sister

  were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle in his hand.

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  She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs. Bounderby,

  and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, 'because she was such a

  pretty dear.' Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object of

  her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should

  come, that her cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late

  too, to people who rose early and worked hard; therefore the party

  broke up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious

  acquaintance to the door of the Travellers' Coffee House, where

  they parted from her.

  They walked back together to the corner of the street where Rachael

  lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept upon

  them. When they came to the dark corner where their unfrequent

  meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were

  afraid to speak.

  'I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not -

  '

  'Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis better that we make up our

  minds to be open wi' one another.'

  'Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. I ha been thinkin

  then, Rachael, that as 'tis but a day or two that remains, 'twere

  better for thee, my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring

  thee into trouble, fur no good.'

  ''Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know'st our old

  agreement. 'Tis for that.'

  'Well, well,' said he. "Tis better, onnyways.'

  'Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all that happens, Stephen?'

  'Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi' thee, Heaven bless

  thee, Heaven thank thee and reward thee!'

  'May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, and send

  thee peace and rest at last!'

  'I towd thee, my dear,' said Stephen Blackpool - 'that night - that

  I would never see or think o' onnything that angered me, but thou,

  so much better than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rt beside it

  now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' a better eye. Bless thee. Good

  night. Good-bye!
'

  It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was a

  sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilitarian

  economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact,

  genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog's-eared

  creeds, the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them,

  while there is yet time, the utmost graces of the fancies and

  affections, to adorn their lives so much in need of ornament; or,

  in the day of your triumph, when romance is utterly driven out of

  their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face to face,

  Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you.

  Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by a word from

  any one, and shunned in all his comings and goings as before. At

  the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the third,

  his loom stood empty.

  He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, on each

  of the two first evenings; and nothing had happened there, good or

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  bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the engagement, he

  resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last night.

  There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby's house, sitting

  at the first-floor window as he had seen her before; and there was

  the light porter, sometimes talking with her there, and sometimes

  looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and sometimes

  coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air.

  When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for

  him, and passed near; but the light porter only cast his winking

  eyes upon him slightly, and said nothing.

  Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a long day's

  labour. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall

  under an archway, strolled up and down, listened for the church

  clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. Some

  purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer

  always looks and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out,

  Stephen even began to have an uncomfortable sensation upon him of

  being for the time a disreputable character.

  Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of light all

  down the long perspective of the street, until they were blended

  and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-floor

  window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a