stains and splashes, but so much fouler than that in her moral infamy, that it was a shameful thing even to see her.
After an impatient oath or two, and some stupid clawing of herself with the hand not necessary to her support, she got her hair away from her eyes sufficiently to obtain a sight of him. Then she sat swaying her body to and fro, and making gestures with her unnerved arm, which seemed intended as the accompaniment to a fit of laughter, though her face was stolid and drowsy.
“Eigh, lad? What, yo'r there?” Some hoarse sounds meant for this, came mockingly out of her at last; and her head dropped forward on her breast.
“Back agen?” she screeched, after some minutes, as if he had that moment said it. “Yes! And back agen. Back agen ever and ever so often. Back? Yes, back. Why not?”
Roused by the unmeaning violence with which she cried it out, she scrambled up, and stood supporting herself with her shoulders against the wall; dangling in one hand by the string, a dunghillfragment of a bonnet, and trying to look scornfully at him.
“I'll sell thee off again, and I'll sell thee off again, and I'll sell thee off a score of times!” she cried, with something between a furious menace and an effort at a defiant dance. “Come awa” from th” bed!” He was sitting on the side of it, with his face hidden in his hands. “Come awa! from “t. “Tis mine, and I've a right to t”!”
As she staggered to it, he avoided her with a shudder, and passed—his face still hidden—to the opposite end of the room. She threw herself upon the bed heavily, and soon was snoring hard. He sunk into a chair, and moved but once all that night. It was to throw a covering over her; as if his hands were not enough to hide her, even in the darkness.
CHAPTER XI
NO WAY OUT
THE Fairy palaces burst into illumination, before pale morning showed the monstrous serpents of smoke trailing themselves over Coketown. A clattering of clogs upon the pavement; a rapid ringing of bells; and all the melancholy mad elephants, polished and oiled up for the day's monotony, were at their heavy exercise again.
Stephen bent over his loom, quiet, watchful, and steady. A special contrast, as every man was in the forest of looms where Stephen worked, to the crashing, smashing, tearing piece of mechanism at which he laboured. Never fear, good people of an anxious turn of mind, that Art will consign Nature to oblivion. Set anywhere, side by side, the work of GOD and the work of man; and the former, even though it be a troop of Hands of very small account, will gain in dignity from the comparison.
So many hundred Hands in this Mill; so many hundred horse Steam Power. It is known, to the force of a single pound weight, what the engine will do; but, not all the calculators of the National Debt can tell me the capacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, for patriotism or discontent, for the decomposition of virtue into vice, or the reverse, at any single moment in the soul of one of these its quiet servants, with the composed faces and the regulated actions. There is no mystery in it; there is an unfathomable mystery in the meanest of them, for ever.— Supposing we were to reverse our arithmetic for material objects, and to govern these awful unknown quantities by other means!
The day grew strong, and showed itself outside, even against the flaming lights within. The lights were turned out, and the work went on. The rain fell, and the Smoke-serpents, submissive to the curse of all that tribe, trailed themselves upon the earth. In the waste-yard outside, the steam from the escape pipe, the litter of barrels and old iron, the shining heaps of coals, the ashes everywhere, were shrouded in a veil of mist and rain.
The work went on, until the noon-bell rang. More clattering upon the pavements. The looms, and wheels, and Hands all out of gear for an hour.
Stephen came out of the hot mill into the damp wind and cold wet streets, haggard and worn. He turned from his own class and his own quarter, taking nothing but a little bread as he walked along, towards the hill on which his principal employer lived, in a red house with black outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street door, up two white steps, BOUNDERBY (in letters very like himself) upon a brazen plate, and a round brazen door- handle underneath it, like a brazen full-stop.
Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Stephen had expected. Would his servant say that one of the Hands begged leave to speak to him? Message in return, requiring name of such Hand. Stephen Blackpool. There was nothing troublesome against Stephen Blackpool; yes, he might come in.
Stephen Blackpool in the parlour. Mr. Bounderby (whom he just knew by sight), at lunch on chop and sherry. Mrs. Sparsit netting at the fireside, in a side-saddle attitude, with one foot in a cotton stirrup. It was a part, at once of Mrs. Sparsit's dignity and service, not to lunch. She supervised the meal officially, but implied that in her own stately person she considered lunch a weakness.
“Now, Stephen,” said Mr. Bounderby, “what's the matter with you?”
Stephen made a bow. Not a servile one—these Hands will never do that! Lord bless you, sir, you'll never catch them at that, if they have been with you twenty years!—and, as a complimentary toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked his neckerchief ends into his waistcoat.
“Now, you know,” said Mr. Bounderby, taking some sherry, “we have never had any difficulty with you, and you have never been one of the unreasonable ones. You don't expect to be set up in a coach and six, and to be fed on turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, as a good many of “em do!” Mr. Bounderby always represented this to be the sole, immediate, and direct object of any Hand who was not entirely satisfied; “and therefore I know already that you have not come here to make a complaint. Now, you know, I am certain of that, beforehand.”
“No, sir, sure I ha” not coom for nowt o” th” kind.”
Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, notwithstanding his previous strong conviction. “Very well,” he returned. “You're a steady Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, let me hear what it's all about. As it's not that, let me hear what it is. What have you got to say? Out with it, lad!”
Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. Sparsit. “I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wish it,” said that self- sacrificing lady, making a feint of taking her foot out of the stirrup.
Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding a mouthful of chop in suspension before swallowing it, and putting out his left hand. Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing his mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen:
“Now you know, this good lady is a born lady, a high lady. You are not to suppose because she keeps my house for me, that she hasn't been very high up the tree—ah, up at the top of the tree! Now, if you have got anything to say that can't be said before a born lady, this lady will leave the room. If what you have got to say can be said before a born lady, this lady will stay where she is.”
“Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten for a born lady to year, sin” I were born mysen',” was the reply, accompanied with a slight flush.
“Very well,” said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his plate, and leaning back. “Fire away!”
“I ha” coom,” Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment's consideration, “to ask yo yor advice. I need “t overmuch. I were married on Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass—pretty enow—wi” good accounts of herseln. Well! She went bad—soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her.”
“I have heard all this before,” said Mr. Bounderby. “She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry.”
“I were patient wi” her.”
('The more fool you, I think,” said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.)
“I were very patient wi” her. I tried to wean her fra “t ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha” gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha” dun “t not once, not twice—twenty time!”
Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone.
“From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t” hinder her? I ha” walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha” gone t” th” brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha” no more on't. I ha” bore that
