Hard Times

by Dickens, Charles

  not the least conspicuous figure in the scene. It was dark now,

  and torches were kindled.

  It appeared from the little this man said to those about him, which

  was quickly repeated all over the circle, that the lost man had

  fallen upon a mass of crumbled rubbish with which the pit was half

  choked up, and that his fall had been further broken by some jagged

  earth at the side. He lay upon his back with one arm doubled under

  him, and according to his own belief had hardly stirred since he

  fell, except that he had moved his free hand to a side pocket, in

  which he remembered to have some bread and meat (of which he had

  swallowed crumbs), and had likewise scooped up a little water in it

  now and then. He had come straight away from his work, on being

  written to, and had walked the whole journey; and was on his way to

  Mr. Bounderby's country house after dark, when he fell. He was

  crossing that dangerous country at such a dangerous time, because

  he was innocent of what was laid to his charge, and couldn't rest

  from coming the nearest way to deliver himself up. The Old Hell

  Shaft, the pitman said, with a curse upon it, was worthy of its bad

  name to the last; for though Stephen could speak now, he believed

  it would soon be found to have mangled the life out of him.

  When all was ready, this man, still taking his last hurried charges

  from his comrades and the surgeon after the windlass had begun to

  lower him, disappeared into the pit. The rope went out as before,

  the signal was made as before, and the windlass stopped. No man

  removed his hand from it now. Every one waited with his grasp set,

  and his body bent down to the work, ready to reverse and wind in.

  At length the signal was given, and all the ring leaned forward.

  For, now, the rope came in, tightened and strained to its utmost as

  it appeared, and the men turned heavily, and the windlass

  complained. It was scarcely endurable to look at the rope, and

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  think of its giving way. But, ring after ring was coiled upon the

  barrel of the windlass safely, and the connecting chains appeared,

  and finally the bucket with the two men holding on at the sides - a

  sight to make the head swim, and oppress the heart - and tenderly

  supporting between them, slung and tied within, the figure of a

  poor, crushed, human creature.

  A low murmur of pity went round the throng, and the women wept

  aloud, as this form, almost without form, was moved very slowly

  from its iron deliverance, and laid upon the bed of straw. At

  first, none but the surgeon went close to it. He did what he could

  in its adjustment on the couch, but the best that he could do was

  to cover it. That gently done, he called to him Rachael and Sissy.

  And at that time the pale, worn, patient face was seen looking up

  at the sky, with the broken right hand lying bare on the outside of

  the covering garments, as if waiting to be taken by another hand.

  They gave him drink, moistened his face with water, and

  administered some drops of cordial and wine. Though he lay quite

  motionless looking up at the sky, he smiled and said, 'Rachael.'

  She stooped down on the grass at his side, and bent over him until

  her eyes were between his and the sky, for he could not so much as

  turn them to look at her.

  'Rachael, my dear.'

  She took his hand. He smiled again and said, 'Don't let 't go.'

  'Thou'rt in great pain, my own dear Stephen?'

  'I ha' been, but not now. I ha' been - dreadful, and dree, and

  long, my dear - but 'tis ower now. Ah, Rachael, aw a muddle! Fro'

  first to last, a muddle!'

  The spectre of his old look seemed to pass as he said the word.

  'I ha' fell into th' pit, my dear, as have cost wi'in the knowledge

  o' old fok now livin, hundreds and hundreds o' men's lives -

  fathers, sons, brothers, dear to thousands an' thousands, an'

  keeping 'em fro' want and hunger. I ha' fell into a pit that ha'

  been wi' th' Firedamp crueller than battle. I ha' read on 't in

  the public petition, as onny one may read, fro' the men that works

  in pits, in which they ha' pray'n and pray'n the lawmakers for

  Christ's sake not to let their work be murder to 'em, but to spare

  'em for th' wives and children that they loves as well as gentlefok

  loves theirs. When it were in work, it killed wi'out need; when

  'tis let alone, it kills wi'out need. See how we die an' no need,

  one way an' another - in a muddle - every day!'

  He faintly said it, without any anger against any one. Merely as

  the truth.

  'Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not forgot her. Thou'rt not

  like to forget her now, and me so nigh her. Thou know'st - poor,

  patient, suff'rin, dear - how thou didst work for her, seet'n all

  day long in her little chair at thy winder, and how she died, young

  and misshapen, awlung o' sickly air as had'n no need to be, an'

  awlung o' working people's miserable homes. A muddle! Aw a

  muddle!'

  Louisa approached him; but he could not see her, lying with his

  face turned up to the night sky.

  'If aw th' things that tooches us, my dear, was not so muddled, I

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  should'n ha' had'n need to coom heer. If we was not in a muddle

  among ourseln, I should'n ha' been, by my own fellow weavers and

  workin' brothers, so mistook. If Mr. Bounderby had ever know'd me

  right - if he'd ever know'd me at aw - he would'n ha' took'n

  offence wi' me. He would'n ha' suspect'n me. But look up yonder,

  Rachael! Look aboove!'

  Following his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at a star.

  'It ha' shined upon me,' he said reverently, 'in my pain and

  trouble down below. It ha' shined into my mind. I ha' look'n at

  't and thowt o' thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind have

  cleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If soom ha' been wantin' in

  unnerstan'in me better, I, too, ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in

  them better. When I got thy letter, I easily believen that what

  the yoong ledy sen and done to me, and what her brother sen and

  done to me, was one, and that there were a wicked plot betwixt 'em.

  When I fell, I were in anger wi' her, an' hurryin on t' be as

  onjust t' her as oothers was t' me. But in our judgments, like as

  in our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an' trouble,

  lookin up yonder, - wi' it shinin on me - I ha' seen more clear,

  and ha' made it my dyin prayer that aw th' world may on'y coom

  toogether more, an' get a better unnerstan'in o' one another, than

  when I were in 't my own weak seln.'

  Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him on the opposite side to

  Rachael, so that he could see her.

  'You ha' heard?' he said, after a few moments' silence. 'I ha' not

  forgot you, ledy.'

  'Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine.'

  'You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message to him?'

  'He is here,' said Louisa, with dread. 'Shall I bring him to you?'

  'If yo please.'

  Louisa retu
rned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both

  looked down upon the solemn countenance.

  'Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I

  leave to yo.'

  Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how?

  'Sir,' was the reply: 'yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak

  no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen

  an' spok'n wi' yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo than that

  yo clear me - an' I trust to yo to do 't.'

  The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon

  being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns,

  prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and

  while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking

  upward at the star:

  'Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there

  in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's

  home. I awmust think it be the very star!'

  They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were

  about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him

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  to lead.

  'Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk

  toogether t'night, my dear!'

  'I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way.'

  'Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!'

  They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes,

  and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in

  hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a

  funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God

  of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he

  had gone to his Redeemer's rest.

  CHAPTER VII - WHELP-HUNTING

  BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one

  figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his

  shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in

  a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to

  the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind

  that wicked shadow - a sight in the horror of his face, if there

  had been eyes there for any sight but one - and whispered in his

  ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few

  moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle

  before the people moved.

  When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's,

  desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr.

  Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him

  since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge.

  'I believe, father,' said Louisa, 'he will not come back to town

  to-night.' Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more.

  In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was

  opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to

  look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby

  on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon

  explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it

  necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while.

  Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen

  Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite

  confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law

  had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its

  beauty.

  Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it

  all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said,

  without opening it, 'Not now, my dears; in the evening.' On their

  return in the evening, he said, 'I am not able yet - to-morrow.'

  He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they

  heard him walking to and fro late at night.

  But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and

  took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and

  quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man,

  than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing - but Facts.

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  Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to

  him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away.

  'Dear father,' said Louisa, when they kept their appointment, 'you

  have three young children left. They will be different, I will be

  different yet, with Heaven's help.'

  She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too.

  'Your wretched brother,' said Mr. Gradgrind. 'Do you think he had

  planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?'

  'I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had

  spent a great deal.'

  'The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil

  brain to cast suspicion on him?'

  'I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father.

  For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate

  with him.'

  'He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him

  aside?'

  'He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had

  done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night,

  father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am

  afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them.'

  'Let me know,' said her father, 'if your thoughts present your

  guilty brother in the same dark view as mine.'

  'I fear, father,' hesitated Louisa, 'that he must have made some

  representation to Stephen Blackpool - perhaps in my name, perhaps

  in his own - which induced him to do in good faith and honesty,

  what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two

  or three nights before he left the town.'

  'Too plain!' returned the father. 'Too plain!'

  He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments.

  Recovering himself, he said:

  'And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from

  justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse

  before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only

  by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it.'

  'Sissy has effected it, father.'

  He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his

  house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful

  kindness, 'It is always you, my child!'

  'We had our fears,' Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, 'before

  yesterday; and when I saw you brought to the side of the litter

  last night, and heard what passed (being close to Rachael all the

  time), I went to him when no one saw, and said to him, "Don't look

  at me. See where your father is. Escape at once, for his sake and

  your own!" He was in a tremble before I whispered to him, and he

  started and trembled more then, and said, "Where can I go? I have

  very little money, and I don't know who will hide me!" I thought

  of father's old circus. I have not forgotten where Mr. Sleary goes

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  at this time of year, and I read of him in a paper only the other

  day. I told him to hurry there, and tell his name, and ask Mr.

  Sleary to hide him till I came. "I'll get to him before the

  morning," he said. And I saw him shrink away among the people.'

  'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed his father. 'He may be got abroad yet.'

  It was the more hopeful as the town to which Sissy had directed him

  was within three hours' journey of Liverpool, whence he could be

  swiftly dispatched to any part of the world. But, caution being

  necessary in communicating with him - for there was a greater

  danger every moment of his being suspected now, and nobody could be

  sure at heart but that Mr. Bounderby himself, in a bullying vein of

  public zeal, might play a Roman part - it was consented that Sissy

  and Louisa should repair to the place in question, by a circuitous

  course, alone; and that the unhappy father, setting forth in an

  opposite direction, should get round to the same bourne by another

  and wider route. It was further agreed that he should not present

  himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions should be mistrusted, or

  the intelligence of his arrival should cause his son to take flight

  anew; but, that the communication should be left to Sissy and

  Louisa to open; and that they should inform the cause of so much

  misery and disgrace, of his father's being at hand and of the

  purpose for which they had come. When these arrangements had been

  well considered and were fully understood by all three, it was time

  to begin to carry them into execution. Early in the afternoon, Mr.

  Gradgrind walked direct from his own house into the country, to be

  taken up on the line by which he was to travel; and at night the

  remaining two set forth upon their different course, encouraged by

  not seeing any face they knew.

  The two travelled all night, except when they were left, for odd

  numbers of minutes, at branch-places, up illimitable flights of

  steps, or down wells - which was the only variety of those branches

  - and, early in the morning, were turned out on a swamp, a mile or

  two from the town they sought. From this dismal spot they were

  rescued by a savage old postilion, who happened to be up early,

  kicking a horse in a fly: and so were smuggled into the town by

  all the back lanes where the pigs lived: which, although not a