“If a thunderbolt had fallen on me,” said the father, “it would have shocked me less than this!”
“I don’t see why,” grumbled the son. “So many people are employed in situations of trust; so many people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred times, of its being a law. How can I help laws? You have comforted others with such things, father. Comfort yourself!”
The father buried his face in his hands, and the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw: his hands, with the black partly worn away inside, looking like the hands of a monkey. The evening was fast closing in; and from time to time, he turned the whites of his eyes restlessly and impatiently towards his father. They were the only parts of his face that showed any life or expression, the pigment upon it was so thick.
“You must be got to Liverpool, and sent abroad.”
“I suppose I must. I can’t be more miserable anywhere,” whimpered the whelp, “than I have been here, ever since I can remember. That’s one thing.”
Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and returned with Sleary, to whom he submitted the question, How to get this deplorable object away?
“Why, I’ve been thinking of it, Thquire. There’th not muth time to lothe, tho you muth thay yeth or no. Ith over twenty mileth to the rail. There’th a coath in half an hour, that goeth to the rail, ’purpothe to cath the mail train. That train will take him right to Liverpool.”
“But look at him,” groaned Mr. Gradgrind. “Will any coach—”
“I don’t mean that he thould go in the comic livery,” said Sleary. “Thay the word, and I’ll make a Jothkin of him, out of the wardrobe, in five minutes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Gradgrind.
“A Jothkin—a Carter. Make up your mind quick, Thquire. There’ll be beer to feth. I’ve never met with nothing but beer ath’ll ever clean a comic blackamoor.”
Mr. Gradgrind rapidly assented; Mr. Sleary rapidly turned out from a box, a smock frock, a felt hat, and other essentials; the whelp rapidly changed clothes behind a screen of baize; Mr. Sleary rapidly brought beer, and washed him white again.
“Now,” said Sleary, “come along to the coath, and jump up behind; I’ll go with you there, and they’ll thuppothe you one of my people. Thay farewell to your family, and tharp’th the word.” With which he delicately retired.
“Here is your letter,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “All necessary means will be provided for you. Atone, by repentance and better conduct, for the shocking action you have committed, and the dreadful consequences to which it has led. Give me your hand, my poor boy, and may God forgive you as I do!”
The culprit was moved to a few abject tears by these words and their pathetic tone. But, when Louisa opened her arms, he repulsed her afresh.
“Not you. I don’t want to have anything to say to you!”
“O Tom, Tom, do we end so, after all my love!”
“After all your love!” he returned, obdurately. “Pretty love! Leaving old Bounderby to himself, and packing my best friend Mr. Harthouse off, and going home just when I was in the greatest danger. Pretty love that! Coming out with every word about our having gone to that place, when you saw the net was gathering round me. Pretty love that! You have regularly given me up. You never cared for me.”
“Tharp’th the word!” said Sleary, at the door.
They all confusedly went out: Louisa crying to him that she forgave him, and loved him still, and that he would one day be sorry to have left her so, and glad to think of these her last words, far away: when someone ran against them. Mr. Gradgrind and Sissy, who were both before him while his sister yet clung to his shoulder, stopped and recoiled.
For, there was Bitzer, out of breath, his thin lips parted, his thin nostrils distended, his white eyelashes quivering, his colourless face more colourless than ever, as if he ran himself into a white heat, when other people ran themselves into a glow. There he stood, panting and heaving, as if he had never stopped since the night, now long ago, when he had run them down before.
“I’m sorry to interfere with your plans,” said Bitzer, shaking his head, “but I can’t allow myself to be done by horse-riders. I must have young Mr. Tom; he mustn’t be got away by horse-riders; here he is in a smock frock, and I must have him!”
By the collar, too, it seemed. For, so he took possession of him.
VIII
Philosophical
They went back into the booth, Sleary shutting the door to keep intruders out. Bitzer, still holding the paralysed culprit by the collar, stood in the ring, blinking at his old patron through the darkness of the twilight.
“Bitzer,” said Mr. Gradgrind, broken down, and miserably submissive to him, “have you a heart?”
“The circulation, sir,” returned Bitzer, smiling at the oddity of the question, “couldn’t be carried on without one. No man, sir, acquainted with the facts established by Harvey relating to the circulation of the blood, can doubt that I have a heart.”
“Is it accessible,” cried Mr. Gradgrind, “to any compassionate influence?”
“It is accessible to reason, sir,” returned the excellent young man. “And to nothing else.”
They stood looking at each other; Mr. Gradgrind’s face as white as the pursuer’s.
“What motive—even what motive in reason—can you have for preventing the escape of this wretched youth,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “and crushing his miserable father? See his sister here. Pity us!”
“Sir,” returned Bitzer, in a very businesslike and logical manner, “since you ask me what motive I have in reason, for taking young Mr. Tom
