“I misdoubt,” said Rachael, “if there is as many as twenty left in all this place, who have any trust in the poor dear lad now.”
She said it to Sissy, as they sat in her lodging, lighted only by the lamp at the street corner. Sissy had come there when it was already dark, to await her return from work; and they had since sat at the window where Rachael had found her, wanting no brighter light to shine on their sorrowful talk.
“If it hadn’t been mercifully brought about, that I was to have you to speak to,” pursued Rachael, “times are, when I think my mind would not have kept right. But I get hope and strength through you; and you believe that though appearances may rise against him, he will be proved clear?”
“I do believe so,” returned Sissy, “with my whole heart. I feel so certain, Rachael, that the confidence you hold in yours against all discouragement, is not like to be wrong, that I have no more doubt of him than if I had known him through as many years of trial as you have.”
“And I, my dear,” said Rachael, with a tremble in her voice, “have known him through them all, to be, according to his quiet ways, so faithful to everything honest and good, that if he was never to be heard of more, and I was to live to be a hundred years old, I could say with my last breath, God knows my heart. I have never once left trusting Stephen Blackpool!”
“We all believe, up at the Lodge, Rachael, that he will be freed from suspicion, sooner or later.”
“The better I know it to be so believed there, my dear,” said Rachael, “and the kinder I feel it that you come away from there, purposely to comfort me, and keep me company, and be seen wi’ me when I am not yet free from all suspicion myself, the more grieved I am that I should ever have spoken those mistrusting words to the young lady. And yet I—”
“You don’t mistrust her now, Rachael?”
“Now that you have brought us more together, no. But I can’t at all times keep out of my mind—”
Her voice so sunk into a low and slow communing with herself, that Sissy, sitting by her side, was obliged to listen with attention.
“I can’t at all times keep out of my mind, mistrustings of someone. I can’t think who ’tis, I can’t think how or why it may be done, but I mistrust that someone has put Stephen out of the way. I mistrust that by his coming back of his own accord, and showing himself innocent before them all, someone would be confounded, who—to prevent that—has stopped him, and put him out of the way.”
“That is a dreadful thought,” said Sissy, turning pale.
“It is a dreadful thought to think he may be murdered.”
Sissy shuddered, and turned paler yet.
“When it makes its way into my mind, dear,” said Rachael, “and it will come sometimes, though I do all I can to keep it out, wi’ counting on to high numbers as I work, and saying over and over again pieces that I knew when I were a child—I fall into such a wild, hot hurry, that, however tired I am, I want to walk fast, miles and miles. I must get the better of this before bedtime. I’ll walk home wi’ you.”
“He might fall ill upon the journey back,” said Sissy, faintly offering a worn-out scrap of hope; “and in such a case, there are many places on the road where he might stop.”
“But he is in none of them. He has been sought for in all, and he’s not there.”
“True,” was Sissy’s reluctant admission.
“He’d walk the journey in two days. If he was footsore and couldn’t walk, I sent him, in the letter he got, the money to ride, lest he should have none of his own to spare.”
“Let us hope that tomorrow will bring something better, Rachael. Come into the air!”
Her gentle hand adjusted Rachael’s shawl upon her shining black hair in the usual manner of her wearing it, and they went out. The night being fine, little knots of hands were here and there lingering at street corners; but it was suppertime with the greater part of them, and there were but few people in the streets.
“You’re not so hurried now, Rachael, and your hand is cooler.”
“I get better, dear, if I can only walk, and breathe a little fresh. Times when I can’t, I turn weak and confused.”
“But you must not begin to fail, Rachael, for you may be wanted at any time to stand by Stephen. Tomorrow is Saturday. If no news comes tomorrow, let us walk in the country on Sunday morning, and strengthen you for another week. Will you go?”
“Yes, dear.”
They were by this time in the street where Mr. Bounderby’s house stood. The way to Sissy’s destination led them past the door, and they were going straight towards it. Some train had newly arrived in Coketown, which had put a number of vehicles in motion, and scattered a considerable bustle about the town. Several coaches were rattling before them and behind them as they approached Mr. Bounderby’s, and one of the latter drew up with such briskness as they were in the act of passing the house, that they looked round involuntarily. The bright gaslight over Mr. Bounderby’s steps showed them Mrs. Sparsit in the coach, in an ecstasy of excitement, struggling to open the door; Mrs. Sparsit seeing them at the same moment, called to them to stop.
“It’s a coincidence,” exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, as she was released by the coachman. “It’s a Providence! Come out, ma’am!” then said Mrs. Sparsit, to someone inside, “come out, or we’ll have you dragged out!”
Hereupon, no other than the mysterious old woman descended. Whom Mrs. Sparsit incontinently collared.
“Leave her alone, everybody!” cried Mrs. Sparsit, with great energy. “Let nobody
