“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 donno 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.
“Come 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 grayer 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
