“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 sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, 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 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 lookout.”
“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.
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 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
